


The Coin, The Stone & The Rose

by Silver_Scribbles



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast (2017), Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Beast!Viktor, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Belle!Yuuri, Fairy Tale Retellings, Falling In Love, Feels, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2018-11-30 01:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 239,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11453427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Scribbles/pseuds/Silver_Scribbles
Summary: Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov once had the world at his fingertips; he was rich and powerful and handsome, and he had everything his heart desired. Now, he is a Beast, imprisoned by an Enchantress' spell; hiding away from the world in the never-ending winter of his shame.Katsuki Yuuri is . . . odd, to say the least. Beautiful, but odd. While the rest of the villagers put one foot firmly in front of the other, Yuuri would rather loose himself to his dancing and his daydreams; always wishing for something more than his provincial life.Each is captive to circumstances beyond their control; trapped by unbreakable spells and impossible dreams. However, an unlikely meeting is about to change everything.Hope makes a final play for their salvation as the sands of time run out; but as Yuuri and Viktor learn to find themselves in one another, they also make discoveries that they're completely unprepared for . . . some wondrous, some wretched . . . and some treacherous enough to permanently tear them apart.For who could ever learn to love a Beast?





	1. The Beast, The Dancer & The Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is my first time posting to AO3, so I apologize in advance for any errors!
> 
> I love Yuuri!!! on Ice and I love Beauty and the Beast, so this just kindof . . . happened, haha. 
> 
> This first chapter may feel very familiar, since I decided to attempt an homage; I had a TON of fun with it, but I promise the whole story isn't just going to be a scene-for-scene re-write! As it progresses, it'll get further from the source material - I just wanted to give a head's up that these first couple scenes are very much a tribute . . . so I hope I did them justice, while still blending elements I love from Yuuri!!! on Ice and staying true to those characters. 
> 
> ***NOTE ABOUT CONTENT WARNINGS
> 
> I haven't officially checked off any content warnings, but be aware that there may be strong language and/or violence in this work. 
> 
> A NOTE ABOUT NON-CON/DUB-CON:  
> This work will contain no explicit sexual content, though it will contain romantic content, such as kissing and/or implied sexual interest, like characters talking about being in love, innuendos, etc. 
> 
> HOWEVER, as in Beauty and the Beast, there are situations involving unwanted flirting, unwanted touching, unwanted marriage proposals and the general rejection of personal autonomy. Though there are no depictions of sex, I know that these situations can still be uncomfortable for some to read (with good reason), so please be advised that this work does contain those types of themes and scenarios. That being said, I did keep this at a Teen rating, so those interactions are not overtly graphic. I just wanted to make a note of this, as I take personal autonomy and consent very seriously, and I know it's a very sensitive topic for many. 
> 
> Once again, thanks so much again for reading and I hope you enjoy!

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a young Prince lived in a beautiful Castle. Although he was charming and charismatic, something cold and foreboding lay just beneath his flawless surface. He was rich and powerful and handsome, he was everything expected of a Prince and more; the very picture of perfection. But that perfection came at a price. In order to maintain his immaculate veneer, he allowed himself no room for doubt or weakness, instead smothering his emotions; locking away his anger, his fear, his sadness, and even his joy, until only cold logic, cordial manners and luxurious finery remained.

He wore his Princely Role as easily as his own crown; reveling in the rich beauty all around him, though always putting his duty first. In that regard he was ruthless, cunning, and ambitious above all else. Under his rule, his lands flourished and his kingdom thrived. For what were those, if not a reflection of himself?

But though his appetite for success granted him the perfection he so craved, his lofty aspirations left no time for life . . . or for love.

Then, one fateful winter night, an Old Beggar Woman came to the castle seeking shelter from the bitter cold. She was ancient, filthy and haggard, all sharp lines and rusty edges, with eyes as hard as iron and a voice like fallen leaves. Though an unusual request, the Prince welcomed her inside; The Castle was plenty big enough, and a night was only a night after all. The Old Beggar Woman thanked him and shuffled inside, as the Prince hid his unease beneath a mask of charm.

The next morning, the Old Beggar Woman requested an audience with the Prince, and met him privately in his Parlor. She thanked him again for his hospitality and told him she wished to reward him for his kindness.

She explained that she didn’t have much with which to repay him; instead, she would gift unto him one of her three worldly possessions, as a token of her gratitude.

Intrigued, the Prince watched as she pulled three items from her dirty, threadbare robe and placed them all before him.

In front of the Prince now lay:

A filthy copper coin; bent and corroded.

A small gray stone; porous and caked in dirt.

A single red rose; wilted and missing some petals.

As the Prince considered the gifts, the Old Beggar Woman smiled; cautioning him not to be deceived by appearances.

The Prince thanked the Old Beggar Woman for her offering and reached for the rose.

The instant the Prince’s fingers closed around the stem, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. For as he touched the rose, the hideous visage before him began to melt away, and the Old Beggar Woman transformed into a Beautiful Fey Enchantress.

A golden glow filled the room as her magic spilled forth, enveloping the Prince; cascading through the halls, flooding the kitchen and the ballroom and the library and the courtyard; drowning every single chamber as it transformed all who lived there; surrounding the castle and swallowing it whole.

The Prince could only watch, forlorn, as his perfect world crumbled all around him; his own body twisting and becoming monstrous before his very eyes.

And through it all, the Enchantress just smiled.

The Castle, the Prince and all who dwelt within were cast into a never-ending winter. Day by day the air became colder, the icicles grew longer and the snow piled higher, confining them to the frosty halls and frozen grounds of the once-proud manor. There they were bound, frozen in time and erased from memory, forgotten by the outside world as the spell worked its heavy magic; abandoned to the bleak embrace of ice and snow.

Even the magic rose, left behind by the Enchantress, eventually began to accumulate frost. Though it remained safely concealed inside the warmth of the castle, the red of its petals faded and the green of its thorns grew dull, as it ever-so-slowly froze from the inside out.

Though he tried, the Prince never did learn what he had done to insult the Enchantress; ignorant of how he had incurred her wrath and called her curse down upon himself and all he held dear. Now, there was nothing left but to endure the spell that had taken everything.

Ashamed of his foolish actions and monstrous form, the Beast isolated himself, retreating further from his few remaining comforts and rejecting the last lingering shreds of his humanity; for he could no longer bear to feel the overwhelming anguish of his failure. Ambition turned to apathy, charm turned to bile and promise turned to ruin as the Beast became a mere spectator of his fate; passive and indifferent to his own suffering.

And so, he shut himself away, with nothing but a magic mirror to remind him of the world that still flourished beyond his curse.

For all was not lost. If the Prince could learn to love another, and earn their love in return before the rose turned to solid ice, then the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time; trapped in the forever-winter of his own making.

As the years waned, so did all hope.

For who could ever learn to love a beast?

 

*****

 

The pink light of dawn coloured the sprawling countryside with a soft blush. The wind whispered through the overgrown grass as the shallow river rumbled along in its murky bed; tumbling slowly downhill, towards a sleepy provincial town.  

Katsuki Yuuri slipped quietly out his front door, feet rapping rhythmically on solid wooden steps, as he departed his small cottage at the edge of the world and made his way into town.

The warm breeze kissed his cheek and swept his dark bangs in front of the blue frames of his glasses as he picked his way along the hard-packed dirt road towards The Village at the bottom of the hill; starting his day the same as every other.

The town was small. Very small. Very, very small; so small, in fact, that Yuuri could see the whole of it from the view at his front door.

The Village was sturdy and well-crafted; all hard lines and thatched roofs and cobblestone roads, built with blood and sweat and community spirit. It was the type of place where you knew your neighbors by name, saw them every day, and stopped to say hello. It was a quaint, safe sort of place, with ONE Butcher, ONE Baker, ONE Barber, ONE Tailor, ONE School, ONE market, ONE Tavern, and NO claim to fame; the same as every other town for miles around, surrounded by fields and farms and forests, and more of the same beyond that.

And beyond _that_?

Yuuri supposed he would never know.

It was a nice town. A good town. It was Pleasant. Peaceful. Quiet.

Boring.

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

The bright clip of village pleasantries interrupted Yuuri’s musings as the packed dirt turned to cobblestones beneath his feet, and the sky turned to straw and sticks above his head. He had made it to the marketplace.

A kaleidoscope of colour erupted before him as he entered the crowd; stepping lightly as he slid through. Busy ladies swarmed past in a hurry; their full, bright skirts swishing at their feet and their shiny curls bouncing at their ears. Children ran past in a blur; yelling and laughing, playing and scolding one another and trying to hide from their parents. Men whooped and exchanged bawdy jokes as they laboured under the not-so-watchful eyes for their foremen. Yuuri tried to remain invisible; tugging at the hem of his blue vest with nervous fingers as he slipped between them.

“Bonjour, Yuuri! Where are you off to today?”

Too late.

Yuuri’s head snapped up at the greeting, and he swiveled on his heel, coming face to face with the baker at his stall, who regarded him with an affable smile.

“Ah, bonjour, monsieur!” Yuuri gasped out, unprepared, but not displeased. He adjusted his glasses on his nose, “I’m going to see Minako this morning. She’s teaching me a new dance today. One of the ones she used to do at court and – ”

“That’s nice,” The baker interrupted gruffly, “Nothing more . . . pressing to do then today, I suppose? No . . . gardens need tending? No doodad needs fixing? No clothes need washing or nothing?”

Yuuri bristled at that, but didn't let it show, “Ah, there’s always something, of course,” he said tightly, “But nothing so pressing I can't spare a single measly morning. More to life than work and all . . .” he tried for a friendly smile. It felt forced. “I have plenty of time for chores this afternoon. No reason I can't do both . . .”

For a moment, the baker gave him a puzzled look, then let out a mighty whoop, “Oh, listen to you! Dancin’ in the mornin’, chores in the afternoon . . . then what? Up all night gazin’ at the stars? Would that we ALL had your stamina! Imagine how much more bread I could bake!” He chided.

Yuuri willed the flush away from his cheeks, forcing a chuckle instead, “Well . . . so much to do . . . and only so many hours in a day,” he agreed weakly.

The baker waved him off with a laugh, “Alright, alright, off with you then! Wouldn't want you to miss your . . . dance lesson,” the snort he let loose was unmistakably derisive, but Yuuri pretended not to hear it.

Instead he turned with a prickly smile, calling a quick “Merci!” over his shoulder as he disappeared back into the crowd.

Yuuri gracefully wove through raging mass of the marketplace; footsteps falling as sure as any courtly choreography. However, it was obvious that his practiced footfalls were not in sync with the melody of the market; for it was not a romantic, triumphant aria, as he would have desired, but instead, a stately fugue; a chipper, repetitive thing, with elegant structures and bleeding echoes, and Yuuri could not be content to settle into the refrain.

“Bonjour!”

“Good Day!”

“How is your family?”

“Bonjour!”

“Good Day!”

“How is your wife?”

“I need six eggs!”

“That’s too expensive!”

And as Yuuri wove his way along the cobbled streets, a little voice in the back of his mind whispered once again that there must be more than this provincial life.

Venders roared all around him to be heard above the din as he maneuvered through the noisy press of people. Every so often he was forced to side-step to avoid a cart slogging its way through the masses. 

Yuuri had always been . . . odd. He had always been quieter and gentler and wittier, more creative and more curious; drawn to art and dance and literature, rather than the rougher, more vulgar pastimes of his peers. He was a dreamer; a thinker; restless and ambitious and driven and easily bored.

The Village wasn't a bad place . . . and the villagers weren't bad people per se . . .  but Yuuri didn't fit in. He didn't belong here; and he knew it.  

He passed quickly by a group of older women gossiping beneath an awning, whose eyes followed him as he moved. He stopped abruptly as a scrawny hog charged across his path; chased by a harried looking youth. Yuuri continued onward, lost in thought.

It was lucky for him, he wasn't the only oddball in town.

His tutor, Minako, who he was on his way to see now, had once been a courtier; though she wouldn't say where from, or why she had left, or why she would choose to come live here of all places. But she had instilled in Yuuri her great love of art, and had taught him much. He loved her stories from court; though they were not always the most . . . appropriate.

Minako moved through life with an air of grace, dignity, and superiority; which earned her a fair share of the town scorn. Unlike Yuuri, she didn't let it affect her; their words rolled off her like raindrops; as if they were so beneath her she couldn't even be bothered to acknowledge them. He wished he could emulate her in that regard as well.

He also had Phichit, his brother in all but blood.

A long and seemingly impossible series of events had led each of their families to this particular blot on the map; when Yuuri had no family left of his own, he had become a part of Phichit’s.

Now it was just the two of them.

Phichit was brilliant; a genius; an inventor. He liked to tinker; he liked to build things and take things apart and blow things up . . . not always in that order. Most of the people in town thought he was mad as a hatter, but Yuuri knew better. Phichit . . . his mind was just so far ahead of its time. It was a shame no one else could see it.

In fact, it had been Phichit who had crafted Yuuri’s glasses; he had gotten the idea for the design from a paper he had read about telescopes – telescopes of all things! The way his mind worked was truly remarkable.

Yuuri seamlessly ducked beneath a crate being lifted by two men, skipped over the divot in the road that still had yet to be fixed, and turned sharply to the left as the laundress pitched her soiled water over the side of the well.

He drifted by a group of young men with open vests who whistled at him as he passed; sailed by a gaggle of ladies in pink frocks who giggled behind his back.

He didn't look at any of them; still lost in his daydreaming.

Yuuri often dreamed of the future; a future where he left his small town for the big city. He could be anything in the city; a dancer, a scholar, a gentleman. He could meet new people . . . people more like him. People who liked literature and science and history. People who dreamed of more.  People who liked to dance.

He and Phichit and Minako, they could all move on together; they could rent an apartment in the city near the river . . . like the ones Minako had told them about. Phichit could tinker and attend salons and talk to people who actually understood how brilliant he was; Minako could return to the high-life she adored and missed so dearly; and Yuuri . . .   

“Bonjour!”

“Pardon!”

“Good Day!”

“Mais Oui”

“You call this bacon?”

“What lovely grapes!”

“Some cheese”

 “Ten yards”

“One pound”

“I’ll get the knife”

“This bread – ”

“Those fish – ”

“– it’s stale!”

“– they smell!”

. . . Yuuri would just have to settle for dreaming.

The reality was, none of them had the means or the connections to actually make any of that happen.

Yet.

“Someday” Yuuri would whisper to himself as he fell asleep at night; as he woke up in the morning; as he perused his hand-me-down atlas by the fire.

“Someday”

The melody of the market swelled once more; Yuuri was almost to the other side.

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

Suddenly, Yuuri collided painfully with something big and red.

Make that some _one_ big and red.

Yuuri groaned, bracing himself for the onslaught to come.

He REALLY needed to start paying attention to where he was going.

“Ah, bonjour, Yuuri,” the words rolled into the air; a sleazy sort of purr, perfectly matching the curl of the sordid smile from whence they came.

Yuuri’s words came out in a sigh, eyes dropping immediately to the cobblestones, “Bonjour . . . Monsieur Leroy”

Jean Jacques Leroy, or ‘J.J.’ as he was better known, was a hometown hero; the pride and joy of The Village. He was strong and rugged and tough. He was boyish and brash and charismatic. He was a man’s man and every inch a hunter; from his cardinal-red tailcoat to the dangerous gleam in his steely eyes. Everyone in town loved Jean Jacques Leroy; everyone that is, except Katsuki Yuuri. 

J.J. was handsome alright; and sure, he was quite a skilled hunter, but he was also rude and arrogant and conceited and obnoxious . . . and downright vile in Yuuri’s opinion. 

At J.J.’s side, as always, was his right-hand officer, Isabella Yang. A huntress herself and formidable in her own right, Isabella and JJ were nigh inseparable. From the hunt to the tavern, they were a team that would let nothing come between them; if Isabella had anything to say about it, that is.

Yuri inclined his head ever so slightly, “Good day to you as well, Mademoiselle Yang,” 

She reciprocated with a glare that spoke volumes.

Yuuri straightened, stepping back tentatively, “My apologies, I’m running rather late and I really must be – ”

He had managed to turn a full one-eighty, when a heavy hand on his shoulder spun him back around.

His stomach sank. He hung his head is resignation.

So close.

“Yuuri! Always so formal!” J.J. cajoled, slinging a heavy arm across Yuuri’s slim shoulders, “How many times have I told you to call me J.J.?”

“I’m sure I can't remember,” Yuuri replied flatly, trying to subtly free himself from the dead weight of J.J.’s now uncomfortably relaxed arm, “But like I said before, I really must be going, so – ”

J.J. ignored him, leaning in further, “You know, Yuuri, I was hoping I would see you today . . .” he began, voice strangely low.

Yuuri fought not to roll his eyes. Not this again.

For some unfathomable reason, J.J. seemed to be fixated on Yuuri. He was utterly OBSESSED with befriending him; badgering him when he was out and about, randomly showing up at his house at all hours of the day and night, plying him with tasteless gifts, inundating him with constant invitations to go hunting, to go drinking, to play cards . . . it was relentless! And the worst part was, through all of the hounding and goading and prodding and wheedling, J.J. seemed completely incapable of keeping his big oafish hands to himself. 

 So, the question was, what did J.J. want with him _today_?

“Is that so?” Yuuri deadpanned in response.

“Oh absolutely,” J.J. preened, taking Yuuri’s words as encouragement, instead of the scathing condemnation that they were.

Yuuri knew that he himself could be . . . well . . . _unobservant_ at times; but if he was ‘inattentive’, then JJ was downright oblivious.

“You know, Yuuri,” J.J. pressed on, “today is your lucky day . . .”

“ . . . because you’re going to let me go now, so I’m not late meeting Minako?” Yuuri supplied hopefully.

J.J. let out a small, throaty chuckle, “Ah, Yuuri, such a tease . . .”

Yuuri recoiled.

This was new.

This was not right.

J.J. was acting strange; even for J.J. 

Yuuri opened his mouth to speak, now suddenly nervous “J.J., please, just tell me what you want so I – ”

“What I _WANT_?” J.J. interrupted him, low and rough, “Oh, Yuuri . . .” his words trailed off into a moan.

Wait, was he – ?

Surely J.J. couldn't be implying . . .  

Oh no.

No.

No, no, no.

This was NOT happening.

 “Looks like it’s my lucky day too . . .” J.J. said at last, his voice was smooth and teasing like crushed velvet. It made Yuuri sick.

The arm around Yuuri tightened even as he tried to push away, “No! No, that’s not what I – ”

Two strong hands slithered to Yuuri’s biceps, holding his upper arms firmly, so he had nowhere to look but directly into J.J.’s tortured eyes, “Come on, Yuuri, you can't play hard-to-get forever,” he cooed, and the sound made Yuuri want to retch, “The looks, the sighs, the coy excuses; this game of cat and mouse. You can't pretend there’s nothing between us,”

What on EARTH was J.J. talking about? What LOOKS? What SIGHS? Yuuri had never been COY in his LIFE! And SURELY not to J.J. of all people!

Could he perhaps be referring to the litany of glares, groans and flat-out rejections that his constant pestering had undoubtedly produced?

Suddenly, throwing up didn't seem like a strong enough reaction.

“I’m _not_ . . . we _aren’t_ . . . there _isn’t_ . . .” Yuuri’s mouth formed words that never came. Thankfully, his muscles succeeded where his elocution failed, and he managed to shove J.J. bodily away from him; both arms fully extended, palms flat to the cardinal-red tailcoat.

Isabella glowered at him; scandalized. Her eyes dripped with scorn; like he wasn't even worth the air he was breathing. Yuuri didn't care.

This . . . this joke . . . or ploy or game or . . . whatever it was . . . ended now.

He turned on his heel, storming away; all the raw fury of a tempest churning inside his lithe frame.

That must be why his hands were shaking.

Yea. That must be why.

Before he made it even three paces, J.J. had caught up with him.

He rounded on Yuuri; now trapped between J.J. and Isabella; a literal rock and a hard place.

The storm inside began to churn his stomach once again.

Maybe, if he played his cards right, he could be sick all over J.J.

“Yuuri, wait!” J.J. commanded, breathless. Yuuri didn't trust himself to speak.

The roar of the market still sang out around them.

“I know . . . I know this is so . . . _big_ and _sudden_ . . . but you don't have to run from this Yuuri. You don't have to run from me . . . J.J.’s here to protect you now,”

The earth ceased to rotate on its axis; time itself stopped as Yuuri struggled to comprehend the unfathomable impossibility of the statement which J.J. had just so callously uttered into existence.

“J.J. . . . I . . . I don't know how to say this,” Yuuri tried to keep his tone even, serious, pointed, “ but . . . _this_ . . . this idea of ‘us’ . . . _together_ , is . . . without question . . . the most ill-conceived notion I have ever heard. I’m sorry . . . there is absolutely no way – ”

J.J. stopped cold; shoulders tensing.

“I see what’s going on here . . . ” He interrupted, tone cool; his entire demeanor had changed from ‘hunter’ to ‘cornered animal’. 

Yuuri stood up straighter, as tall as he could; there was no way he was backing down.

J.J. inhaled deeply, his thick chest becoming even broader with the movement, steely eyes staring Yuuri down.

“ . . . You’re worried J.J. will lose interest . . . once the _hunt_ is over,”

With a wink and a smirk, the cocky demeanor returned, and Yuuri’s world came crashing down once again.

J.J. stepped closer, this time placing his hands firmly on Yuuri’s waist; Yuuri braced himself, palms flat against J.J.’s chest once more as he tried to keep some semblance of distance between them.

J.J. rambled on, “ . . . but I can assure you Yuuri, it’s time for this man to settle down. Will I be leaving behind a trail of broken hearts? Of course. Will all the other fair maidens and handsome lads fly into a jealous rage when they hear of our affair? Very probably. Will they say that you are unworthy of my affections? I will not lie . . . they might. But they’re wrong . . .” J.J. finally looked down at Yuuri’s flustered face, “Listen . . . we’re a perfect match, you and I. I mean . . . YOU’RE beautiful, and of course, I’M beautiful –”

Suddenly the world shifted back into place; time resumed and the tempest stilled.

Now it all made sense.

It was just a joke.

Just a sick, stupid, joke.

Yuuri started to laugh; a shaky, fluttering thing.

“Ah . . . ha, ha . . . good one, J.J. . . .”

J.J., who had been consumed by his romantic declaration, finally quieted.

“You . . . you really had me going there!” Yuuri sputtered, his anger seeping away out his sides, like stuffing out of loose stitches.

J.J.’s eyebrows knit together slowly, “Yuuri . . . I don't . . . understand”

What a surprise. J.J didn't understand something.  Who could have seen that coming?

“Great prank,” Yuuri congratulated, making his meaning as clear as possible and taking a shaky breath in, “You too, Isabella, you REALLY had me convinced!” He craned his neck to look at Isabella, who had not moved a muscle; not even stopped glaring.

“Really, honestly . . . very funny joke guys. I really believed you . . . right up until the whole . . . ‘you’re beautiful’ . . . bit,” Yuuri proclaimed, weak smile tugging at the corner of his lips as hysteria bubbled up his throat, threatening to choke him. He patted J.J.’s chest with his right hand, a little too frantically, “You . . . you can let me go now . . . seriously, J.J. . . .”

But J.J.’s grip only tightened, tugging Yuuri closer to him.

“You think this is a joke?” He demanded, “You think I’m a clown? You think J.J. is some kind of funny-man?”

And just like that, the world stopped again.

“I . . .”

Yuuri froze along with it.

Then J.J. started laughing too; reckless and bawdy, “Of course I’m funny, Yuuri! It’s just one of my many charming qualities . . . or so I’m told!”

J.J. kept laughing, and Yuuri laughed along, strained like wet crepe paper; now completely at a loss.

The world was no longer even considering a return to its stately rotation, but rather had decided to start jumping wildly up and down, leaping madly from its orbit to take its chances out in the cold, unknown vacuum of space where it could continue to frolic about however it damn well pleased.

“I wasn't joking before, though. Not about this. Not about us,” J.J. said suddenly, voice once again low and gruff, “You’re a very beautiful man, Yuuri Katsuki . . . the most beautiful in town, I’d wager,”

Yuuri swallowed hard, “Oh . . . I’m sure that’s not true . . .”

His mind raced and still came up empty.

J.J. just grinned wider, “You’re right! But I meant ASIDE from me . . .”

“That’s not . . . what I meant . . .” Yuuri was floundering; badly.

J.J. just pressed on, as he always did, “And you know . . . I bet you’d be even more beautiful without this . . . whatever it is . . . hiding your pretty face all the time!”

J.J. reached down and plucked Yuuri’s glasses right off his nose.

Yuuri sprang up on his tip-toes reflexively, trying to reach them.

“Wait! No! J.J.! I  . . . I need those to see!” He protested.

“BUT . . . you LOOK so much better without them! Get it? I’m GREAT at jokes!” J.J. smiled proudly, handing the glasses off to Isabella, who took them from him seamlessly.

Yuuri twisted in J.J.’s grip, trying to get a better view of Isabella, who now stood off to J.J.’s right. “Haha . . .” his trifling laugh continued, “Yes . . . you’re . . . very funny J.J. . . . ” the complement tasted like ashes, “ . . . can I please have my glasses back now? I ACTUALLY can't see without them, and Phichit made them himself and – ”

“Bonjour J.J.!”

“J.J., are you coming?”

“What are you waiting for?”

A group of men was calling J.J. from the market; his hunting party maybe? Yuuri wasn't certain. Even twenty feet away, he couldn't make out their faces without his glasses.

J.J. pouted, “Ah, duty calls,” he sighed wistfully, bringing one hand up to cup Yuuri’s jaw, “But don't miss me too much, Yuuri . . . I’ll see you soon,”

It wasn't an offer . . .  it was a promise.

At long last, Yuuri was released. He dropped back flat on his feet; dumbstruck and swaying slightly. The voices of J.J. and the others began to retreat before he snapped back to his senses.

“J.J.! My glasses!” His cry was just a shade below frantic.

“Oh, right!” J.J.’s voice was far off, “Isabella! Give Yuuri his glass . . . thing . . .”

Isabella came slightly back into focus as she stepped in front of him; she stopped a couple feet short, still far enough away to be a crimson blur in Yuuri’s field of vision.

Yuuri held out his hand, palm up, arm fully extended; stiff and impatient.

He could tell she was shifting, leaning forward, arm extended, something closed in her hand . . .

Then he heard a ‘clink’ and a ‘snap’ and a ‘crunch’.

Then Isabella was walking away.

Yuuri took a deep breath and sank to his knees.

There was nothing to be done for it now. He snaked his hands out in front of him, tracing the dirt and cobblestones with his fingertips, searching for his glasses; knowing he would find nothing but shattered lenses and twisted frames.

At long last his hands closed around the wreckage; pointy bits of metal and tiny shards of glass poking into the pads of his fingers. He held the ruined glasses aloft, only to discover that the lenses had been entirely smashed out. There was nothing left to salvage.

He would have to go home and beg Phichit for new ones.

Not that Phichit would refuse, of course; but Yuuri would feel bad for wasting his time on something so trivial. He knew Phichit had much more interesting and important projects to work on.  

Not to mention he’d have to miss today’s lesson with Minako. Again, she would of course understand, but she was expecting him, and a promise was a promise.

Yuuri collected himself, stood up slowly, and brushed himself off, broken glasses carefully cradled in his palm, and slowly turned back towards the market; heading home to the small cottage on the hill outside of town.

 

*****

 

Yuuri knew Phichit’s workshop like the back of his hand.

He knew that the “workshop” was actually just an old barn they had inherited on their families’ property; large and re-purposed, with a floor of hard-packed dirt and a roof of slatted planks; rigged to open and close on a whim to let in the sun; Phichit’s design, of course. He knew that all the old stalls had been knocked down to make space; to make one big, open room. He knew that it stank of wood and smoke and varnish; just like Phichit always stank of wood and smoke and varnish. To Yuuri, it just smelled like home. 

He knew that on the North and South walls respectively were a matching pair of massive double-doors, but that Phichit had blocked off the North set entirely to make the workshop more secure. He knew that along the East wall was a makeshift forge; with an anvil and all the mismatched blacksmithing tools that Phichit had collected over the years. He knew that five large barrels of rainwater stood near the forge in case of emergency; it was the same reason that the entire perimeter of the workshop, for a good ten feet out, was ringed with nothing but shale and gravel; and packed earth for another ten feet past that; always meticulously maintained and monitored. Yuuri knew that in the Southeast corner were a lathe and an axe and a saw, next to a towering pile of assorted wooden planks and boards; beside that, an overflowing heap of scrap metal containing every broken bit of detritus known to man. He knew that the West side of the workshop was lined entirely with tables, covered from one end to the other with tools of all kinds and various bits of metal and cogs and springs and nails and screws and odds and ends; each precisely placed for greatest efficiency. He knew that the barn loft above was heavy with failed and half-finished intentions.

He knew that there were three workbenches, parallel to one another down the center of the room.

He knew the North Workbench was the most dangerous; for it was covered with all manner of paints and glues and stains and polishes and glitters, in every shade and hue and tone . . . and if one laid so much as a single careless finger on it, they would become a walking rainbow for all eternity.

He knew that the Center Workbench was Phichit’s own; the one where it all came together. The numerous bits and pieces of Phichit’s latest project lay scattered about its surface in organized chaos . . . whatever those bits and pieces happened to be at any given time. Yuuri knew better than to touch anything on that workbench, ever, under any circumstance; Firstly because it would incur Phichit’s ire, secondly because he might break or lose something, and thirdly because Phichit sometimes liked to dabble in more . . . volatile fields. Yuuri absolutely did not want to risk one of Phichit’s projects exploding on him, or dissolving, or launching, or igniting, or one of the other infinite and unpredictable reactions he had now come to expect from his brother’s creations.  

Yuuri knew that at present, the Center Workbench was fairly empty, save a few small screws with their matching screwdriver, some pliers, a cigar box of assorted lenses, and the twisted frames of his own broken glasses; the only part that was even remotely redeemable. He also knew that Phichit was currently hunched over the workbench; nimble hands flying in practiced strokes over the pieces in front of him as he swiftly rebuilt the spectacles on which Yuuri so relied.  

And finally, Yuuri knew that the South Workbench, at which he was now sitting, was intended for drawing up blueprints; for contriving, revising, and storing diagrams and charts and notes and research.

Yes, Yuuri knew Phichit’s workshop perfectly, inside and out; from the smallest spring the broadest board . . . but without his glasses, everything just looked brown.  

He traced a sullen finger over a yellowed page as Minako fumed beside him.

A small smile quirked at the edge of Yuuri’s mouth, “You know, Minako, I may not be able to see . . . but I can FEEL you scowling over there,” he teased, hoping to lighten the mood.

Minako turned to him gracefully, long dark hair spilling over her shoulder like a waterfall as she did so, “Ah-ah Yuuri,” she tutted lightly, “Ladies’ don't scowl, they seethe”

“They also destroy one-of-a-kind visual aids for fun, apparently” Phichit added with a snort, not once stilling his hands or looking up from his work.

Yuuri had told them what had happened with J.J. and Isabella; every dark, disgusting detail. Phichit and Minako were family, so of course he had; even if he hadn't been planning to, it would have been a fairly hard story to hide.

Yuuri never missed a lesson with Minako. So when an hour past their meeting time had come and gone and he still hadn't shown up, she had known something was wrong and gone looking for him. She eventually found him wandering around the marketplace all-but-blind, broken glasses in hand, casually trying to suss out whether he was in front of the barber’s or the butcher’s, in an attempt to find his way back home.

He had been doing a fine job of navigating, even while sightless, until a passing cart forced him to side-step suddenly, unwittingly turning him around, and making him lose his bearings completely. But thankfully, Minako had sought him out and brought him home, and soon Phichit would have his glasses fixed and he could put this whole horrible day behind him.

Minako heaved a deep sigh, “You know, it’s times like these when I actually miss court. At court, it’s so much easier to ruin a person,”

Yuuri rolled his eyes, “We are not ‘ruining’ Isabella,” he said firmly, trying to keep a smile out of his voice. He was glad his friends were so . . . protective of him, but Yuuri was not one for conflict. Besides, someone had to be responsible here.

“I’m just saying,” Minako protested, all long, lazy vowels, “that if we did want to ruin her, it would be easier to do at court. There, all one would have to do is slip the wrong monogrammed handkerchief into the wrong bedchamber for the wrong person to find – and voila! Ruin. I mean, how could you even try to ruin someone in a place like this? No one out here has ever even heard of a handkerchief . . .”

“Hunting Accident,” Phichit supplied helpfully, still not looking up.

“Phichit . . . we are not murdering Isabella” Yuuri objected, exasperated.

“Who said anything about murder?” Phichit countered, not missing a beat, or looking away from his work, “There are lots of things that can go wrong on a hunt . . . you could get frostbite and lose a hand . . . or get lost for a few days, go mad and start seeing things . . . or fall off your horse and break your leg . . .”

“Fall off your horse and break your back,” Minako continued.

“Fall off your horse and break your neck,” Phichit added.

“Fall into a river”

“Fall off a cliff”

“Get sick from camp food”

“Accidentally set yourself on fire”

“Accidentally shoot yourself”

“Accidentally shoot yourself, and then get an infection”

“Get stung by a swarm of bees”

“Get bitten by a snake”

“Get attacked by a bear”

“Get attacked by wolves,”

“Get attacked by birds”

“ . . . birds?” Phichit challenged incredulously, eyebrow raised, looking up for the first time.  

Minako flushed, “Yes . . . birds. Big ones. Like a hawk . . . or a falcon . . . birds are scary, Phichit!”

Phichit held his hands up in mock surrender, tiny screwdriver pinched between his finger and thumb, “Alright, attacked by birds,” he conceded.

Yuuri had to laugh, “I can't believe I have to say this . . . we are not . . . sending birds to attack Isabella! Or . . . whatever it is you two are on about!”  

Phichit sighed dramatically, like he had been wounded, “Come on, Yuuri . . . let a man have his dreams!”

Yuuri crossed his arms, “Not when those dreams are going to land you in jail,” he chided.

Phichit pouted and went back to the frames, “Well, they started it,” he muttered petulantly.

“He has a point,” Minako agreed.

Yuuri felt his nerves prickle at the back of his neck, “It’s fine . . . really . . .”

“It’s not fine,” Minako asserted, “People can’t treat you that way, Yuuri. I swear the next time I see that J.J. he’s going to get more than a piece of my mind – ”

“Ah no, Minako, please – ” Yuuri urged, “let’s not make a big deal out of it. It was just a stupid joke, I’m sure they’ll forget all about it by tomorrow,”

The workshop was silent, but for the metallic slide of Phichit’s pliers as he kneaded the warped metal of Yuuri’s frames.   

Yuuri couldn't see, but he knew Minako and Phichit were looking at one another, having a silent conversation with just their eyes. They all knew each other well enough that they could often tell what the others were thinking with a single glance.

Yuuri took a deep breath, knowing that whatever was going on, it must be something bad for his friends to fall this silent, “So, are you going to tell me?” he asked bluntly.

“Sorry, Yuuri,” Phichit apologized quietly. Yuuri was surprised at how sincere and serious he sounded.

“Yuuri . . .” Minako began; her voice was gentle and slow, like it was during their lessons, “had you considered . . . that what happened today with J.J. perhaps wasn't a joke?”

Yuuri rolled his eyes for what felt like the millionth time that day, “Of course it was a joke. Think about it . . . me . . . with _J.J._? Like I would EVER even CONSIDER . . .” He swallowed hard, stamping down his disgust “Minako . . . I told you what he said . . . ‘the most beautiful man in town’ . . . that HAD to be a joke. I mean . . . spare me, right?” hurt and hysteria began to bubble in his gut once more.

Again, Yuuri was met with silence.

“Right?” he pressed a second time, a little harsher than before.

Now the answers were simultaneous.

“Well . . .”

“Actually – ”

“Oh no, not you too!” Yuuri wailed, hands flying to cover his face.

“What?” Minako challenged skeptically, “Oh, Yuuri! Don’t tell me you can't see it! I mean, you MUST hear the way people talk”

“People TALK? About ME?”

“Yes. Constantly,” Minako confided bluntly. Yuuri responded with a squeak.

Katsuki Yuuri was odd. He was a kind and decent person, but he was quiet and shy and awkward and anxious; the type of person that nobody ever looked at twice. And truth be told, that was just fine by him. He was perfectly content to go about his business, and leave others to theirs in turn. He was invisible, and he liked it that way. He liked going about his day unencumbered, uninhibited and uninterrupted; doing things in his own way and in his own time. He relished the peace and comfort and freedom that came with being invisible.  

Now, all of a sudden, he was finding out that he was not quite as invisible as he had thought.

People NOTICED him? And not only did they NOTICE him, but they TALKED ABOUT HIM too?

Minako threw her hands up, “What do you want me to say, Yuuri? You’re acting like this is a bad thing!”   

“That’s because it IS a bad thing” Yuuri hissed, “A very, Very BAD thing!”

“Oh, woe is me!” Phichit teased sarcastically, from behind his workbench, “I’m Katsuki Yuuri, and I’m the most BEAUTIFUL man in town! Everyone talks about how BEAUTIFUL I am all the time and they all want to kiss me on my mouth because I’m just so BEAUTIFUL! Oh, cruel fate!”

Minako suppressed a snicker as Yuuri went deathly pale.

“ . . . do . . . do they all really want to kiss me on my mouth?” Yuuri’s eyes were wide and unblinking, voice little more than a monotone whine.

Seeing Yuuri’s face, Minako’s countenance shifted, suddenly sympathetic, “Of course not, Yuuri. He’s only joking,” She turned to throw a warning glance at Phichit, “Right?”

Phichit nodded solemnly, “Yea, right, of course,” he confirmed, before the mischievous grin snuck back onto his face “. . . and if it makes you feel better, I for one absolutely do not want to kiss you on your mouth,”

“Phichit!” Minako admonished.

Yuuri let out a shaky laugh, “Ha . . . that . . . actually, that does make me feel better . . .”

Minako let out a long suffering sigh, “In that case, Yuuri . . . just know that I also do not want to kiss you on your mouth,”

Yuuri nodded, trying to steady himself; something inside him was moving, buzzing, bouncing up and down, smashing against his ribs and threatening to shake him apart.

People thought he was beautiful . . . and he should be flattered, he knew that. He knew he was being ridiculous, over reacting . . . but all he could think about was J.J.; his words and his hands and the sick, slimy way he made Yuuri feel. The way J.J. had said he was beautiful had made Yuuri want to crawl out of his own skin; “beautiful” . . . like he was about to be consumed. Beauty meant attention; beauty meant Yuuri wasn't invisible anymore; wasn't safe anymore. And people talked about it; talked about _him_. Had he ever been invisible? Had he ever been safe? All this time . . . how could he have been so stupid; so oblivious?  

He wasn't ready for this; it wasn't something he ever thought he would have to be ready for.

“So . . . J.J. . . . J.J. was serious?” Yuuri mumbled, feeling the bile rise in the back of his throat.

Minako turned an apologetic frown back to him, “We’re sorry, Yuuri . . . we . . . we honestly thought you knew . . .”

“But . . . WHY?” Yuuri wailed.

“Simple,” Phichit answered, “You’re gorgeous, and he’s shallow,”

“Phichit!” Yuuri and Minako both scolded at once.

“What? It’s the truth!” Phichit countered, “And I can either arm you with the truth so you’ll be ready when the battle comes, or I can comfort you with lies and leave you to the wolves”

Yuuri nodded. He wasn't wrong.

“But I’m . . . odd,” Yuuri objected weakly.

“And?” Phichit deadpanned, not understanding Yuuri’s point.

“I just mean . . .” Yuuri flailed, “Listen, I know I’m not . . . hideous, or anything . . . but I never thought I was . . . particularly exceptional either? I just don’t see why J.J. . . . and everyone else . . . is so interested in me. I mean there are lots of beautiful people in town, and even if I am . . . good-looking . . . I’m . . . well, let’s face it . . . I’m odd for a place like this. I’m quiet and shy and awkward . . . and I don't really talk to anyone. I don't fit in. I don’t belong here,” Yuuri’s eyes dropped to the floor.

“Yuuri,” Minako drawled, “Of course you don't belong here. None of us do. That’s a good thing. If you were the type of person who belonged here, you and I would not be friends,”

Yuuri couldn't see it, but he knew Minako was smiling at him; he lifted his head and smiled back.

She continued on, “Now, what you have to understand about these people . . . is that they don't know you. Not like we do. They don’t know you’re shy and awkward. All they see is a pretty face; a pretty face that they know nothing about. So, to the outside eye, ‘shy’ and ‘quiet’ and ‘awkward’ becomes ‘aloof’ and ‘mysterious’ and ‘unattainable’. Then, as people begin to speculate more and more about the ‘beautiful, reclusive young man’ living in their midst, they inevitably fill in the blanks as it suits them, and before you know it rumor transforms the ‘shy, but not-unattractive farm boy’ into the ‘elusive, gorgeous playboy’. And some people . . . people like J.J. . . . they . . . well . . . you can see why they would want that ‘playboy’. They like the . . . the challenge of someone ‘aloof’ and ‘mysterious’ and ‘unattainable’ . . .”

Yuuri was suddenly feeling very ill again; he was going to be sick all over the workshop floor.

“. . . and . . . I mean, you’re not _just_ beautiful,” Phichit said softly, arms tensing as he pushed a stubborn lens into the now-solid framework of Yuuri’s new glasses.

Yuuri and Minako both swiveled their heads towards him in unison.

Phichit blushed, “I just mean . . . and remember, I’m saying this as your brother . . . you know, as a completely objective third party . . . there’s more to you than you think, Yuuri. You . . . you really are . . . beautiful. There’s a certain . . . way you move? Graceful? When you dance? And how you carry yourself?” Phichit shook his head in frustration, “Oh, I don't know how to say it . . . but, trust me, there’s a reason people talk about you, Yuuri,”

Minako smirked like the cat that got the canary, “Yes, apparently you smiled at the baker’s daughter last week. It was all anyone talked about for days,” she teased.

“What?” Yuuri snorted, “How could that possibly be of interest to anyone?”

“Because . . .” Minako answered sagely, “you never smile,”

Oh.

Yuuri groaned into his hands; this whole thing was ridiculous.

Minako and Phichit looked at one another; eyes once again alight with mischief.

“Did you see? Did you SEE? He SMILED at ME!” Phichit declared in a joking falsetto, “he’s so BEAUTIFUL and MYSTERIOUS and he SMILED at ME!”

“Oh you’re so lucky!” Minako wailed back in a similar teasing tone, pretending to fan herself as she did, “Oh, how I wish just once he would smile at ME! He’s just so BEAUTIFUL and ALOOF and UNATTAINABLE!”

Yuuri raised an exasperated eyebrow, “Oh yes . . . ” he agreed sarcastically, “ So beautiful . . . anxiety and poor vision are such attractive qualities. I want to kiss him right on his mouth,”

But Minako and Phichit were having too much fun.

“SO BEAUTIFUL!”

“SO MYSTERIOUS!”

“SUCH A PLAYBOY!”

“IF ONLY HE WOULD SMILE AT MEEE!!!”

Eventually, Yuuri could not keep up the deadpan facade, “Alright! Alright! You’ve made your point!” He exclaimed, a few traitorous chuckles rolling out as he did so.

Yuuri suspected that Phichit and Minako were looking very pleased with themselves.

“So . . . what do I do now?” Yuuri asked, cautiously.

“Umm . . . enjoy being aloof and mysterious and unattainable?” Phichit replied loftily.

“Yes . . . but in case you’ve forgotten, there’s a certain _someone_ who is currently trying to ‘attain’ me,” Yuuri responded tightly, “and this particular ‘someone’ happens to be a temperamental hunter who owns a bow, a rifle, and a blunderbuss as well as multiple pistols, swords and knives, and assumedly knows how to use them all,”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Phichit tutted, “let’s not assume J.J. actually KNOWS how to use ANYTHING unless we have proof. Personally, I’m pretty sure Isabella still laces his boots for him and everything,”

Yuuri smiled, but the hammering in his chest did not abate, “Yea, but it’s not just J.J. . . .”

 The realization struck him like slap to the face.

“Oh no,” Yuuri breathed, “Who else is there?”

“Yuuri? What do you mean?” Minako asked, worry colouring her voice.

“You said . . . Phichit said . . . before . . . he said they ALL want to kiss me on my mouth . . . who else is there?” Yuuri’s words were fast and desperate.

Phichit’s answer was soft, “Hey, hey, Yuuri . . . it’s ok. It was just a joke, remember?”

Yuuri nodded.

Phichit smiled, clearly relieved, “Good,”

He picked up the now-finished, fully-functional glasses from his workbench, strolling over to Yuuri and placing them in his hands.  

Yuuri smiled sheepishly and slid them on, blinking as his eyes adjusted; he could now clearly see Phichit smirking at him, leaning against the workbench next to Minako, who also smiled; though there was still a shadow of concern behind her lovely eyes.

“Besides . . .” Phichit continued nonchalantly, “no one else is going to bother you. Nobody would dare cross J.J.; I mean, EVERYONE knows he wants to marry you,”

“HE WANTS TO WHAT?”

Just like that, Yuuri’s fragile reality shattered once again.

 

*****

 

Jean Jacques Leroy was a man of many talents; he was strong and swift and agile, he was powerful and popular and charismatic, he was tenacious and crafty and cunning . . . and ruthless when he had to be. J.J. never lost a fight, never came home empty-handed and was never denied anything he wanted.

And for some reason, he wanted Katsuki Yuuri.

Isabella swore she would never understand it.

J.J. was gorgeous and charming and brave; the perfect man. Anyone in town would sell their soul to be on his arm; men and women alike.

So, why Katsuki Yuuri?

Now, it was painfully obvious to anyone with a pulse, that Katsuki Yuuri was absolutely not worthy of J.J.’s affections in any way, shape or form. Isabella supposed he was attractive enough, in a quiet, bookish sort of way, but there really wasn't much else to him, in her opinion. Honestly, she thought he was really rather dull; too reserved for her liking.

It was also painfully obvious to anyone, living or otherwise, that Katsuki Yuuri was absolutely not _interested_ in J.J. in any way, shape or form; possibly to due some unnameable malady which affected either his eyes, his brain, or his heart; or possibly all three at once, considering how insufferably obtuse he was being when it came to J.J. and said affections.

So, why Katsuki Yuuri?

No matter how Isabella tried, she couldn't figure it out; for all the time she spent tilting at that particular windmill, she always came up empty.  

Was he secretly rich? Was he long-lost royalty? Or was J.J. actually the one with the unnameable malady, and was it time for her to take him out back and put him out of his misery?

Finally, Isabella had enough. That afternoon as she and J.J. headed out on their hunt, she demanded answers; releasing a volley of a thousand questions, each like an arrow aimed to kill.

“ . . . I . . . I just don't understand!” She fumed.

She had expected J.J. to yell; expected him to pout and wail and rage and rail and argue. She had expected him to shut down; to shut her out completely. She had even expected him to scoff and remind her of her place.

Instead, he only laughed that congenial laugh of his and said, “Of course you don't understand . . . you’ve never seen him dance,”

Then he gave his horse a quick spur to the side and galloped further into the forest; leaving Isabella speechless, with no choice but to follow.


	2. The Cottage, The Forest & The Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> J.J. makes a declaration, Phichit gets lost, and Yuuri meets a Beast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for reading! I'm so blown away by all the lovely comments and kudos' and bookmarks - all you wonderful folks that stop by to read just make my day! I hope you enjoy the next chapter :D 
> 
> This one got WAY longer than anticipated, so I hope that makes up for the wait, haha! 
> 
> If you want, you can find me on tumblr at https://silverscribblesuniverse.tumblr.com/ it's a fairly new blog, so there's honestly not much there atm, but sometimes I lurk around and post stuff. 
> 
> TECHNICAL NOTES:
> 
> I'm going to try to add more words and phrases from the character's native languages to the dialogue as the story progresses (where appropriate) - Full Disclosure: I'm mainly depending on Web Translators to help me out here. I did find one that translates as well as provides context for the translation, and another which provides related idioms across languages. So even though I'm trying to be as accurate as I can, if you notice anything weird in any of my translations, feel free to give me a shout and I'm more than happy to fix it!
> 
> FIND TRANSLATIONS IN THE 'END NOTES'
> 
>  
> 
> ***CONTENT WARNINGS FOR CHAPTER 2
> 
> MINOR CHARACTER DEATH(S) - There are no "on-screen" character deaths, or deaths of any previously named characters, but there are references made to characters who had already passed away before the start of the initial story-line in Chapter 1. The references are not gory or overtly graphic in nature. 
> 
> LANGUAGE AND/OR VIOLENCE - Please be aware that there may be the occasional curse word/violent scene in this work. This chapter contains an animal attack. 
> 
> ***A NOTE ABOUT NON-CON/DUB-CON:
> 
> This work will contain no explicit sexual content, though it will contain romantic content, such as kissing and/or implied sexual interest, like characters talking about being in love, innuendos, etc.
> 
> HOWEVER, as noted at the start of Chapter 1- this work involves themes regarding unwanted romantic/sexual advances and the rejection of personal autonomy. These themes can be a sensitive subject for many, so please proceed with caution.

It was a warm, lazy afternoon at the small cottage on the hill outside of town; hazy summer sunlight streamed in through a small window as bluebirds sang outside in the distance.

Yuuri was curled up in his cozy old chair by the small stone hearth, atlas in hand, tracing the coastline and contentedly dreaming of the sea. He may have been meant to be sweeping out said hearth, but that was neither here nor there.   

His peace was not to last, however, as the top half of the wooden door suddenly crashed open with a loud ‘bang’ that rattled the walls.  

Yuuri jumped in his chair, sending the atlas tumbling to the floor.

“Well, I’m off!” Phichit hollered from the front step, all breathless joy and ruddy smile. 

Yuuri leapt up gleefully and went to lean out over the tiny veranda, settling his arms on the bottom half of the door; a wide, eager smile alight on his face, atlas abandoned where it had fallen, “so, what have you made this time?” He asked brightly.

Every year, The Town by the Sea held a huge Summer Festival; and every year Phichit would bring a new invention to show off to the gathered masses. The Town by the Sea was not large by any means, but it was bigger than their own; and people came from all around to enjoy the festivities.

Though many had been amused by Phichit’s inventions, no one had taken a serious interest . . . yet. But someday, that would change.

Someday.

“Behold!” Phichit cried merrily, producing a light, rectangular, lacquered box which sat neatly in the palm of his hand.

Yuuri eyed it warily, “Ahh . . . impressive” he quipped.

Phichit snorted, “Alright, don’t get smart,” he returned jokingly. He then flicked a small latch on the side of the box.  

Suddenly, it unfurled before Yurri’s very eyes; solid sides folded into flexible slats as the box rolled itself out; aided by sliding cogs.

After much whirring and grinding of gears, the box at last ceased its transformation, becoming completely flat, level and rigid. There, tucked in at the corners and pinned to its smooth surface was . . .

“A letter!” Yuuri exclaimed in delight.

“Yup!” Phichit beamed, “This, oh brother of mine, is the envelope of the future! Lightweight, waterproof, and much more secure than mere wax and paper,”

Phichit smirked, and Yuuri beamed with pride. Not only did this invention actually _work_ , it was . . . _practical_ . . . and _safe_ to boot; which was a dolefully rare combination to find in Phichit’s creations.

“Phichit! This is brilliant!” Yuuri cried, springing up to lean on his hands, “People are going to love it!”

Phichit blushed at the praise, “Oh . . . it’s nothing all that ground-breaking . . . I mean, it’s basically a puzzle box . . . just a bit . . . re-purposed, is all . . . ”

“It’s wonderful,” Yuuri asserted.

“Thanks,” Phichit huffed humbly, before plastering on his signature smirk “. . . In any case, it’s much better than last year’s self-digging shovel –”

“– which we will never speak of again,” Yuuri finished tightly. He smiled at Phichit. Phichit smiled back.

“So? What are you waiting for?” Yuuri wheedled with a grin, “Get out of here!”

Phichit smirked, turning quickly to leap from the small porch as he always did; flicking the switch in reverse so the box would fold back in on itself securely.

Beyond Phichit’s jubilant silhouette, Yuuri could see the vast grassy field sprawling out in front of the cottage; the peak of Phichit’s workshop visible in the distance, just where the hill started to dip. The hard-packed dirt road lay as a visible border between them, South to The Village, North to the forest and world beyond. Their bay Shire horse, Vicchan, stood by amiably, tied to a small post just outside the cottage, fully tacked and ready to go.   

Phichit suddenly stopped mid-spin, careening back around. Yuuri’s eyes widened questioningly.

“. . . You’ll remember to feed the mice?”

Yuuri softened, “Of course I will,”

They weren’t pets . . . not exactly; just the field mice who sometimes took refuge in Phichit’s workshop when the weather turned foul. Phichit had taken to leaving out seeds and breadcrumbs and bits of corn for them.

And he had named them.

There was Knut and Bolt and Cog and Spring and Screw and Widget . . . and Poppy.

“ . . . because she likes poppy seeds, obviously!” as Phichit had so emphatically proclaimed.

Yuuri knew Phichit liked the company; late at night as he poured over his latest schematics, the quiet pattering of little paws made him feel less alone as he worked. 

And if Yuuri had caught Phichit talking to them once or twice when he checked up on him in the dead of night? Well . . . no one ever need know.  

“Now get going!” Yuuri encouraged with a laugh, “Go and thrill and stun and amaze with that wonderful new envelope of yours!”    

Phichit cast a quick glance at Vicchan, who stamped an impatient hoof, but still he did not move.  

“Umm . . .” Phichit worried his lower lip between his teeth, “And are you . . . going to be alright?” He asked, trying to sound casual.

“Of course,” Yuuri blinked, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just . . .” Phichit scratched at the back of his head, “You haven’t left home in a couple days and . . . I thought, with everything going on with J.J. . . . I don’t . . . I don’t HAVE to go this year . . .”

Yuuri crossed his arms, “Phichit Chulanont, you are NOT missing that Festival, now go!” his voice was stern, but teasing.

It was true; Yuuri hadn’t been to the market in a couple days . . . but it had absolutely _nothing_ to do with J.J.  

Absolutely nothing.

There was just so much to do around the house; that was all.

Phichit laughed, “Alright, alright!” he took a slow, easy step back, “but just so you know, when I get back I’m digging us a moat to keep the brute away for good!”

Yuuri grinned, “Sounds perfect,” he agreed, “Add some turrets with big cannons while you’re at it . . . and a portcullis with some murder-holes.”  

“Will do,” Phichit promised, “In the meantime, just carry around something shiny you can distract him with . . . or a big pointy stick”

Yuuri laughed. “Phichit, I’ll be fine,” he said firmly, “I can survive without you for three days”  

Phichit hummed in mock concern, “Hmm . . .  I don’t know Yuuri . . . you say that now, but I might return home only to find our crops withered in the field . . . our livestock sickened and dying . . .” he punctuated his dramatic narration with a raised arm.  

Yuuri narrowed his eyes, “I’m sure I can handle a vegetable garden and a half-dozen hens, Phichit,” he drawled sarcastically, “now get out of here already, or it’ll be dark before you get there! I don’t want you traveling after nightfall!”

“Alright! Alright!” Phichit laughed, dropping his arm with a thud. He quickly popped off the veranda, and drifted over to Vicchan. Yuuri smiled, shook his head and turned back inside.

“Hey, Yuuri!” Phichit called. Yuuri leaned out over the half-door once more.

“Want me to bring you back anything?” Phichit offered with a smirk.

Yuuri shook his head, “Nah, don’t worry about me” he returned with a small smile.

Phichit rolled his eyes, “Fine! I’ll surprise you then!” he hollered, as he swung up into the worn leather saddle on Vicchan’s back.  With a gentle tug on the reins he swung the large, doddering steed towards the road, casting one last glance back towards Yuuri and the Cottage they called home.

Yuuri waved as Phichit and Vicchan trotted off into the distance; he didn’t look away until they had disappeared completely into the dense copse of trees that marked the edge of Yuuri’s world.

With a melancholy sigh, Yuuri stepped back inside, closing the upper half of the door and locking the heavy iron latch; silently wishing Phichit a safe journey.

Yuuri always envied Phichit these trips; but someone had to stay behind and look after the house and garden and their small smattering of chickens.

When Yuuri was little, they all used to go to the festival together; his family and Phichit’s. Back then, there was always someone around; one set of parents would stay and look after both farms, and one set would take the kids to The Town by the Sea.

The Chulanonts and the Katsukis were lifelong friends, they owned land next to one another, and might as well have been a single family; sharing everything from tools to barns to harvests.

When Yuuri lost his sister, Mari, to a tragic accident when they were both very young, the Chulanonts had been pained just as deeply as the Katsukis; like one of their very own had been taken.

 And years later, when Yuuri lost both his parents to a sudden spreading sickness, there was no discussion or hesitation; he simply moved into Phichit’s room and the Chulanonts started setting an extra place at their table.

Now it was just Him and Phichit; the rest of the family lost over the years to age and injury and illness.

But at least they still had each other.

And so what if Yuuri couldn't go to the Summer Festival? He still had Phichit, and he still had Minako, and he still had ‘Someday’.

Truthfully, he had considered asking Minako or one of the other villagers to watch their little farm for him so he could go to the Festival with Phichit this year, but with his newly discovered ‘reputation’ he _really_ didn't trust anyone to take care of his personal business without being too nosy; and he knew for a _fact_ Minako would refuse; which to be honest, Yuuri could not hold against her . . . not after the ‘chicken incident’.

The one and ONLY time Minako had watched their place had been a few months prior, when Phichit had sustained a small workshop-related injury. After a short foray to the next town over, to see the only _competent_ doctor for miles, Yuuri and Phichit had returned home to discover that one of the hens had gotten loose and somehow cornered poor Minako atop Yuuri’s favourite chair.

Apparently, all three of them, Minako included, had underestimated just how paralyzing her ‘trifling fear of birds’ truly was.

To this day she refused to say how long the sweet little fowl had her pinned up there. In response she had only huffed, stating, “I am a tutor, NOT a milkmaid!”

And that had been that.  

But she had a point, she was a tutor through and through; and quite an exceptional one at that. It was no secret that she wasn’t the most _popular_ woman in town, _but_ she had brought Davey Miller’s reading comprehension up from a ‘D’ to an ‘A’ . . . and miraculously convinced him to stop biting people.  

Between that and the steady stream of culture, amusement and cheer she brought to their lives, Yuuri could forgive her ineptitude and disdain for farm work. 

Yuuri sighed and looked around the small cottage; it wasn’t much, but it was home.

It was cozy, one level and all made of oak; inside it was weatherproofed and papered and painted white. The front of the cottage faced to the west, with a small porch and solid wood steps leading down to the grassy roll of the plateau on which it was built. A heavy half-door with iron cross-beams on each fraction was mounted in the very center; with unassuming, shuttered windows placed on either side, both of which were adorned with matching ironwork.

The floor plan was as simple as it was snug; an open L-shaped space wrapped around two bedrooms tucked side-by-side in the back left corner, in relation to the door. The open space in front of the bedrooms was a sitting area with a bookshelf and a small bench that doubled as a trunk, atop a small, threadbare pink rug. This stretched into the kitchen; an open area which wrapped around to the right of the bedrooms, with a grey stone hearth and chimney built into the far back wall. Just in front of it stood a plain but sturdy wooden table with two chairs, under another little shuttered window on the south wall.

Yuuri’s favourite old sitting chair, with its curling arms and its broken leg and its worn blue cushion, were tucked back into the far left corner by the hearth, in the warmest, cuddliest spot in the house. One of his favourite things in the world was to peruse the small bookshelf, pick up his atlas or another beloved old friend, and snuggle into that chair for hours on end, completely lost to the outside world.

The bookshelf had been hand-carved by Phichit’s father, a carpenter-turned-farmer, marked with notches where Yuuri and Phichit and Mari had grown over the years, and filled with Yuuri and Phichit’s most treasured books. There were tomes about all subjects, from fiction to physics; books their own mothers and fathers, and grandmothers and grandfathers had collected over the years; some of the only mementos they had left to remember them by.

In the bedrooms, they each had a little straw-filled mattress to sleep on with thick, rough, handmade blankets and soft down pillows. Yuuri had the far bedroom, so he wouldn’t be woken as easily when Phichit would creep in late after a night of tinkering. 

And though Yuuri wished he could be off to The Town by the Sea with Phichit, and though he often dreamt of running away to The City, a part of his heart would always be here; home in the small cottage on the hill outside of town.

Yuuri hummed to himself, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the small space. So much to do . . . the garden needed weeding and the mice needed feeding . . . and someone should really sweep out that hearth.

Yuuri’s eyes settled on the atlas, discarded in a careless heap on the worn plank floor. He heaved a wistful sigh and went to collect it, crossing the short distance to place it carefully on the bookshelf.

His mind settled back on the hearth; no time like the present, he supposed.  

Just then, a raucous knock on the door shook him out of his thoughts.

He laughed to himself. Was Phichit back already? What had he forgotten _now_? He really _was_ going to be late.

Yuuri slid the vertical iron bolt down, locking the two halves of the door together, before heaving the whole thing open; but it was not Phichit who stood on the other side.

“J.J. . . . what . . . what are you doing here?” Yuuri gaped at the hunter who had materialized on his stoop. 

J.J. stood in the doorway, filling the entirety with his broad shoulders and red jacket, in his hand he clutched a bouquet of wildflowers.

“Yuuri! Oh, good, you’re home! Well, I . . . I hadn't seen your pretty face around the market for days, so I was concerned about you, of course!” J.J. exclaimed, eyebrows knitting together, lip sticking out in a slight pout.

Yuuri took a step back. This was . . . different, for J.J.. It was almost . . . sincere. Almost . . . kind. Almost . . . human.

Almost.

“I’m fine, J.J., Thank you,” Yuuri said flatly.

His heart was starting to hammer; he should have begged Phichit to dig the moat _before_ he left.

“So . . .” J.J. offered forward the flowers, “can I come in?” his grin quirked up at the corners.

“Uh . . .” Yuuri scrambled for an excuse, coming up completely empty.

“NO!” his mind screamed, “NO, NO, NO! DOOR CLOSE! J.J. OUT! DO NOW!”

But somehow, his words and body would not comply.

Despite _knowing_ J.J., despite _knowing_ what type of person he was and _knowing_ exactly what he wanted, Yuuri somehow couldn't justify the ‘NO’ desperately trying to break free.

J.J. was being nice; behaving. That meant Yuuri _had_ to be nice too, right? Be polite and say yes and behave? His insides short-circuited. He didn't know how to play this game. He didn't know the steps to this particular dance; didn't know how or when it would end, wanting nothing more than to gracefully bow out and leave the ballroom entirely.

This would be so much easier if J.J. could just be his usual rude self! If J.J. could be rude, then Yuuri could be rude too; be rude and say no and toss him out and lock the door.

Yuuri frantically searched the knots in the wooden floorboards beneath his feet for answers, when a simple sound caught his attention; a bluebird whistling in the distance, subtle and serene. Yuuri lifted his head. Suddenly something clicked; he knew exactly what to do.

He would be neither rude nor polite; he would be enigmatic instead; like when he tried to emulate Minako, like a lady at court, like the “Playboy” he supposedly was.

Instead of ‘awkward farm boy Katsuki Yuuri’ fumbling for a way to evade J.J. for another day, ‘unattainable Playboy Katsuki Yuuri’ would end this nonsense once and for all; he would prove to  J.J. that there was nothing for him here, show him that this would only end badly for them both, and convince him to turn his attentions elsewhere.   

He just prayed that it would work.

Yuuri straightened, finding his perfect posture; neck long, chin raised, hips tucked, one long line from his head to his toes; graceful and poised, just as Minako had taught him.

“What ever for, J.J.?” Yuuri drawled, letting boredom colour his tone.

Now it was J.J.’s turn to scramble, “Well . . . I thought . . . we could . . . talk . . .”

“Is that so? Truth be told, I’d never marked you as a conversationalist,” Yuuri said airily. There was no condescension or malice in his voice, no flirtatiousness, or teasing. It was as if he was remarking how he’d just noticed the vibrant red of J.J.’s jacket.

“You never marked me as a lot of things . . .” J.J. said lasciviously, and Yuuri had to give him points for trying.

“And what, pray tell, would we talk about?” Yuuri’s gaze became a little sharper; not unfriendly yet, but definitely warning.

“How about _us_ ,” J.J. suggested immediately.

Yuuri’s eyes brightened; J.J. had walked right into his trap.

“Yes . . . us . . .” Yuuri said slowly, as if he were actually thinking about it, “us . . . and the multitude of things we have in common?” His words were simple, patient, and gentle; like Minako with a difficult student, trying to lead them towards an answer on their own.   

That actually seemed to give J.J. pause; the hunter’s eye’s narrowed in thought. Yuuri saw his opening and took it.

“Au revoir, J.J.” He said firmly, as he began to shut the door.  

But the door didn't close; instead it rebounded off the toe of a shiny black leather boot.

“Yuuri! Wait!” J.J. protested, as he pushed inside the cottage.

Yuuri turned, running a tense, aggravated hand through his hair in frustration, “Or just come right on in!” he muttered sarcastically, under his breath. J.J. looked like he was about to speak. Yuuri caught himself quickly, assuming the ‘Playboy’ persona once more. He crossed his arms, tossed his head, and turned his back to the hunter, looking out the south window instead. It was late into the afternoon; he could see the shadows getting longer in the distance.

“Yuuri, please, just hear me out!” J.J. cried. Contrary to his choice of verbiage, it was not in fact a plea, but a command.

Yuuri slowly looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. His head was the only part of his body that moved; the rest of him remained perfectly poised; heels together, posture perfect. His ephemeral confidence was still entirely dependent on the smooth lines and sharp angles of his elegant masquerade. In fact, even more so now, since he no longer had the large wooden door to shield him.

J.J. looked like a man obsessed, his arms were outstretched, eyes wide and imploring. Yuuri was slightly taken aback, thinking with a grimace that J.J. might actually sink to his knees at any second.

“Yuuri,” J.J. gasped, “Yuuri, can't you see I’m mad about you?” He gesticulated wildly as he spoke, shaking the wildflowers and sending their petals fluttering to the dusty floor. 

Yuuri languidly turned on his heel to face J.J., the very picture of grace, “Yes, J.J. . . .” Yuuri answered calmly, fueled by his ersatz courage, “believe me, I’m _keenly_ aware of your . . . intentions,” something ugly fluttered in Yuuri’s chest. He smothered it immediately, taking a deep breath before continuing; he couldn’t let himself fall apart now. When at last he spoke, his voice was patient; even and measured “However, the detail which seems to be escaping me is . . . _why_?”  

J.J. guffawed, “Oh Yuuri, don't be so modest –”

Yuuri held up a finger to indicate silence; for once, _he_ was the one interrupting J.J.

“You misunderstand,” he said firmly; tone brokering no argument, “I’m not asking which of my qualities has you so enamoured of me. I’m asking you to justify . . . _this_ . . . as a sensible match,”

“Who ever said love was sensible?” J.J. replied passionately.

Yuuri’s eyes widened an imperceptible fraction.

Love? _LOVE?_ Since _when_ did _J.J._ bandy about words like ‘love’?

This was going to be trickier than Yuuri thought.

It would require delicacy; tact.

Yuuri could be tactful.

Well, ‘Playboy Yuuri’ could be tactful.

Hopefully.

Yuuri rested his fingertips demurely on his chin and heaved a deep, dramatic sigh, as if he were actually torn about what he had to say next, “Oh, J.J.” He said gently, “we just have so little in common. We don’t have the same interests, or the same friends, or the same desires for the future. _This_ . . . just won’t work. It can't. We could never make one another happy . . . and I’m sure, somewhere deep down inside, you know that, don't you?”

Yuuri looked at J.J. hopefully.

J.J. looked to the flowers in his hands.

When he looked back up at Yuuri his eyes had narrowed.

“I could make you happy, Yuuri,” he declared; Yuuri’s point soaring right over his head, an arrow taken by the breeze. He stepped closer.

“I’m the greatest marksman this town has ever seen,” J.J. boasted, “I bring in enough meat and furs to keep The Village stocked twice over, with extra to trade. My house is two stories and made of stone, my family owns the largest plot of land for miles around. My own coffers are overflowing, and I have enough sway in this town to get you anything your heart desires . . . anything, Yuuri, just name it and it’s yours,” J.J.’s words were speeding up, tripping over one another and starting to tumble together as he pressed on, “. . . and once we’re married we’ll have so much more time to get to know each other, since you won’t be stuck all the way out here anymore. Every morning you can see me off on my hunt, and then spend the day however you please . . . just one of the perks of having such a wealthy husband, Yuuri . . . and every evening you can welcome me home, and join me and Isabella at the tavern, and we’ll tell you all our best stories and enjoy the finest wines . . . and I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted . . . and you can keep dancing . . . I won’t make you stop or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” J.J. finished with a casual wave of his hand.

J.J.’s word vomit sluiced out his mouth in a grotesque, chunky stream and gushed across the floor to pool in a fetid, seeping puddle at Yuuri’s feet. Yuuri suppressed a gag; as if he were standing in _actual_ vomit.

“J.J.,” Yuuri began, tone weary, “I really don't think you understand –” he was once again cut off by J.J. who, as usual, made a habit of interrupting.

“I . . . I actually . . . would prefer if you _kept_ dancing, to be honest” J.J. admitted, softer than before. There was something vulnerable in his tone, something sensitive, “Seeing you dance . . . it’s what made me fall for you in the first place . . .”

Yuuri scrutinized J.J. carefully, searching for any trace of a trap; but he couldn't find one, all he could detect was a faint scarlet hue tinting the tips of J.J.’s ears.

Was J.J. . . . blushing?

No. That was impossible.

But there it was, a ruddy little flush peeking out through those spiky dark locks; and for just a moment; one fragile, fleeting moment, Yuuri looked at J.J. not as a rival, or an annoyance, or an antagonistic suitor, but as the shy, brash little boy that he was, and Yuuri felt a tiny pang of sympathy for the poor misguided lout.

However, it didn't change the fact that Yuuri just did not love him back.

Yes, though it seemed that appearances had been deceiving when it came to J.J., one small revelation could not change how Yuuri felt. That’s not how these things worked. 

Yuuri had been very clear about where he stood on the matter. He had already said ‘No’ to J.J. enough times. He couldn't just pretend he had feelings for the man, even if he had wanted to. He couldn't sacrifice his own happiness for the sake of some else’s. He couldn't throw his dreams away to live a lie that would only hurt them both.

This new discovery _also_ didn't remedy J.J.’s other shortcomings; didn't make up for the other injuries and offenses; didn't forgive the fact that the man was incapable of respecting Yuuri’s boundaries, keeping his hands to himself or taking ‘no’ for an answer.

Then a shiver ran up Yuuri’s spine as he came to yet another realization.

Yuuri’s eyes locked on to J.J.’s, sharp and demanding “J.J. . . . When have you ever seen me dance?”

Yuuri never danced in public; not at the tavern, or in the town square, or at any ceremonies or special occasions.

The dancing in and of itself he could handle, and even very much enjoy; the drunken townsfolk and waterfalls of wine and ale which came part and parcel with such things . . . not so much.

Yuuri didn't like the thought of some handsy, hammered villager groping him during a jig . . . not to mention the fact that he himself had a tendency to go off the rails when he drank; a trait he came by honestly, thanks to his father.

Though he would have loved to share his passion for dance with the villagers, a few disastrous misadventures had soured him to the idea, so these days he tended to avoid such things altogether.

Yuuri adored dance, he adored the challenge and the skill and the artistry of it, the way it made him feel like he was flying, like his very body was being transformed by the music as he moved; every single facet of it inspired him, drove him, changed him, broke him in the most beautiful ways and built him back up again better than he was before.

He loved all kinds of dance; especially ballet, theatrical dance, and the more courtly dances he would practice with Minako; Allemandes, Gavottes, Minuets and the like. 

No one really understood that though; no one except Minako anyway. In town, dancing was just something you did while you drank; and that was fine, that was fun even, but that just wasn't for him.

And so, Yuuri never danced in public.

And so, it was strange for J.J. to confess that Yuuri’s dancing was what had stolen his heart.

Very strange indeed.

J.J. grinned from ear to ear.

“There’s a grove of trees just north of here . . . one of my hunting trails runs behind this little clearing there . . .”

Yuuri’s insides turned to ice. He straightened his back stiffly, lifting his chin just a little higher, leaning heavily on his poise to protect him once more.

He knew the clearing of which J.J. spoke. It was just out behind the cottage, a little ways away; a clearing where Yuuri would go to chop wood . . . where he could be alone to practice his dancing.

The hunting trail was new information to him.  

He had never seen J.J. there before, even with the garish red blazer he always wore; but Yuuri supposed that being a skilled hunter had its advantages.

Advantages like remaining hidden when it suited one’s needs; however unscrupulous those needs may be.

Now, the only question was . . . how long had J.J. been watching him for?

Yuuri blinked slowly, “I see . . .”

J.J. took another step towards Yuuri.

“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my entire life,” J.J. confessed quietly, now nearly chest to chest with Yuuri.

Yuuri lifted his eyes to meet J.J.’s, unflinching.

One more chance. One more hail-Mary pass.

“J.J. . . . Do you like _dance_?” He asked evenly.

“. . . I like it when _you_ dance,” J.J. replied, his wolfish smile all the answer Yuuri needed.

“. . . That is . . . as I suspected,” Yuuri replied faintly, once more cloaking himself heavily in his Playboy facade. He stepped back from J.J., smoothly dipping around him, and moving to the bookshelf, pretending to be fascinated with something he found there; hoping that the physical distance would ease the tension, or at least help J.J. take a hint.

J.J. spun to face him, following the trail of his turn, “What do you want from me, Yuuri?” he exclaimed, depositing the flowers harshly on the table, “What more can I do, what have I not already done? Am I not successful enough for you? Rich enough? Handsome enough? I brought you flowers, I’ve told you over and over how beautiful you are, promised to do whatever it takes to make you happy, offered you everything I have . . . so what more do you want?” His tone was getting fevered; measured for the moment, but right on the edge of breaking, “Yuuri . . . I’ll . . . I’ll do anything . . . I love you. Why can't you see that I love you?”

Yuuri turned his head pointedly; J.J.’s face was pained, but there was anger behind his eyes.

“Because you _don’t_ ” Yuuri replied sharply; still graceful, but now with a focus; with an edge that could cut the very light and make it glare.  

“Yuuri . . .” J.J. objected, a growl edging into his voice.

“Earlier,” Yuuri returned icily, “in that ‘perfect future’ you were envisioning for us . . . where was Phichit? Where was Minako? Planning out a life for us that _excludes_ my _family_? That doesn't strike me as a particularly loving thing to do, J.J. . . . and that’s only the beginning; you assumed my affections could be bought with coin and status and fancy gifts. You decided, unilaterally, that you would _take me away from here_ , from _my home_ , which I _love_ , so that I could come live with you in town, where I would spend the entirety of my days _alone_ while you went out and did as you pleased, only to come and collect me whenever it suited _you_ and _your needs_ , essentially reducing me to nothing more than a particularly lively accessory. Furthermore, whether you realize it or not, you implicitly stated that your permission was imperative to my continued pursuit of dance, and I can say with absolute conviction that no suggestion has ever infuriated me more in my life . . . and to top it all off . . . this _entire time_ you’ve treated _this_ . . . _us_ . . . this horrible, _horrible_ future . . .  this _marriage_ . . . like an inevitability . . . like it’s going to happen . . . like it’s _already happened_ . . . when not only have I _not_ agreed to marry you . . . you haven’t even _asked_ me to marry you. You haven’t even courted me properly. You haven’t even _befriended_ me properly,”

J.J. glared furiously at the wall behind Yuuri’s head.

Yuuri pressed on, emboldened by J.J.’s silence, “You don't respect me. You don't listen to me. You don't know _anything_ about me,”

“That’s not true,” J.J. objected through gritted teeth; fists clenched by his sides, trying to remain calm.

Yuuri quirked an eyebrow, “Oh? Is that so?” He asked lightly; folding his arms and leaning sideways against the bookshelf. It felt strange to be like this; Yuuri, cocky and unflappable, J.J. a flustered mess.

“Well then . . .” Yuuri prompted, “What colour are my eyes? What’s my favourite food? Where did I get my atlas?”

J.J. said nothing; just glared at the wall, the bookshelf, the floor.

“Who’s older, me or Phichit? What was the first dance Minako ever taught me?”

Still nothing.

“What’s my sister’s name?”

J.J. finally looked up. Yuuri was still staring him down, eyebrow raised,

“. . . I thought . . . didn't your sister . . . isn’t she . . ?” J.J. fumbled quietly.

“She still has a name,” Yuuri replied flatly.

J.J. didn't answer right away; the small cottage went silent. A small breeze rippled through, tugging at Yuuri’s bangs. He glanced past J.J., out the south window. The heat of the summer sun turned the horizon into wet, rolling waves; blurry and mesmerizing. It was practically evening now.

“ . . . and you don't know what it is,” Yuuri finished somberly, looking back at the defeated hunter in the cardinal-red tailcoat.

J.J. slumped; his mouth twitched over words that didn't come, searching for what to say.

“Now do you understand, J.J.?” Yuuri asked firmly, less ‘Playboy Yuuri’ and more ‘Yuuri Yuuri’, “How can you claim to love someone you know nothing about? The Villagers . . . I know what they say about me. I know how people talk, but . . . I’m not who they think I am . . . I’m not who _you_ think I am. I’m not some ‘playboy’ . . . I’m just a person . . . a person that nobody actually knows . . . because no one has ever really bothered to talk to me . . . or _listen_ to me, for that matter.”

J.J. grit his teeth once again, “But the way I feel is _real_ , I know it – ”  

“ _It’s not love_ ,” Yuuri countered coldly, impatience cracking his elegant mask, “call it whatever you want, call it infatuation or admiration or desire or obsession . . . but it’s not _love_. You _don't_ love me, J.J.”

“Then I’ll do it right,” J.J. vowed, determination radiating from him as his eyes gleamed and his fists uncurled.

Suddenly Yuuri felt like he had made a very big mistake.

His eyebrows creased with worry, “do _what_ right?” he demanded.

“This _love_ thing. I’ll do it right,” the predatory smirk was back on J.J.’s face, the swagger back in his step, the devil back in his eyes.

Yuuri’s throat went dry.

J.J. tilted his head, “I’m going to learn everything there is to know about Yuuri Katsuki,” he declared, “and I’m going to come back here and _ask_ you to marry me every day for the rest of our lives . . . until you finally say yes. I’m not giving up on us, Yuuri . . . and one day we’re going to have our happily ever after,”

Yuuri shivered; why did sweet nothings always sound like threats when they fell from J.J.’s lips?

With a wink, J.J. turned and vanished out the door; off to set his grand new scheme to woo Katsuki Yuuri into motion.

The cottage shook as the door slammed shut behind him. Yuuri shuffled over to it numbly; sliding the massive iron latch firmly into place and locking it with trembling hands.

He pressed his back to the heavy oak door and slowly slid down to the floor, burying his head in his hands, as fluttering dry sobs began to wrack his body.

Damn that oblivious bastard Jean Jacques Leroy and his relentless bloody pursuit; and damn that cocky Playboy Yuuri Katsuki and his big stupid mouth.

Maybe he could hide out with Minako until Phichit came home and got to work on those fortifications; though at this point, Yuuri doubted if even an army could stop J.J.

Yuuri let out a wail that echoed through the little oak house; head tipping back and banging against the thick timber supporting his miserable, shaking frame.   

What was he supposed to do now?

 

*****

 

“I don't understand, Vicchan . . . we should be there by now . . .” Phichit muttered bitterly, as they plowed roughly through the dense undergrowth of the Northern Forest.

The sun had long since disappeared over the horizon. In its place, the waxing moon hung swollen in the sky; the thick cover of tree branches criss-crossing over it like crooked cobwebs.

Phichit fumbled clumsily in the saddle as he tried to read his map and continue navigating in the darkness.

His only other source of light: a small lantern of his own design.

While similar in all regards to most normal lanterns, Phichit’s had three stark differences. First, it was half the size, which meant half the brightness and half the duration, since he could only accommodate half as much fuel. Second, rather than hanging by an iron loop, his was mounted on a handle, like a candelabrum, or a torch. Third, his lantern did not allow for light to be emitted on all sides, but instead, all except for one of the sides had been blacked out; so the lantern projected only a single, concentrated beam of light.

This new design had worked wonders in and around the workshop; it was perfect for reading, and looking under tables for missing screws and for delicate tasks where even the slightest shadows were a hindrance. It was durable and maneuverable and highly specialized, and Phichit considered it one of his greatest successes.

Unfortunately, while it was an inventor’s best friend, and currently provided adequate illumination for deciphering the map in front of him, the small, super-focused beam did nothing to dispel the pressing blackness of the forest, and Phichit could barely see the path in front of them . . . if there even _was_ a path in front of them anymore, that is.

“Not one word about this to Yuuri, got it, Vicchan?” Phichit warned; jolting as the map stared to slide from his lap.

Vicchan snorted and tossed his head, tugging the reins hard out of Phichit’s inattentive hand.  

“I know, I know . . .” Phichit soothed, taking a deep breath and gathering the reins back up, “but he has enough on his mind, we don't need to start in with the horror stories the second we get home,” with one hand, he slid soft, gentle strokes down Vicchan’s neck as he spoke, “and besides, I don't need to give him _another_ opportunity to say, ‘I told you so’ . . .”

Phichit’s weak, hollow laughter rang out through the dark, abandoned trees.

They continued forward through the eerie stillness, with nothing but the rhythmic _‘swish-thud, swish-thud, swish-thud’_ , of Vicchan’s bulky, plodding hooves to keep them company.

Phichit tried to focus on the map, but time and again the forest drew his eye back to its inky, nebulous maw; filling his mind with all manner of terrifying and grisly fates, each more gruesome than the last.

Phichit swallowed hard and directed his attention back to the map once more; infinitely remorseful about his callous attitude towards hunting accidents.

Suddenly Vicchan stopped his steady gate. He was agitated; shifting his weight from side to side, stamping his front hoof, and pawing at the ground with it.

“Woah . . . Vicchan . . . Vicchan” Phichit cooed, trying to calm his steed while steadying both his belongings and his nerves, “what is it boy . . . what’s – ”

“AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”

The howl pieced the night like shattering glass.

Phichit never saw the wolves; just heard the baleful cry and Vicchan’s replying whinny, before the world fell away beneath him.

His stomach dropped as the massive Shire horse popped back once, then rose jarringly off his front hooves; rearing violently, before bolting into the dense, black abyss.

It was all Phichit could do to wrap his arms around Vicchan’s neck and hold on for dear life; dropping the reins, the map and the lantern as he did so.

Vicchan raced through the foliage at breakneck speeds, Phichit clinging to the bay steed with all his might; hounded by an invisible enemy, perused by nothing but the sounds of claws in dirt and snapping jaws and snarling chops.

As long as the foes remained unseen, they were safe; if they could outrun, outmaneuver, outlast, then they still had a fighting chance . . . but if the sounds became sights and the barks became bites . . . if they lost their stamina or their advantage or their footing . . . if the enemy managed to gain enough that they saw the whites of their eyes and the flash of their fangs . . . then they would be done for.  

Branches whipped at Phichit’s face and arms as Vicchan crashed fiercely through the underbrush; his thighs were starting to ache terribly, and the stallion was showing no signs of slowing.  

They were way off course now, careening blindly through the shadowy thickets and thorns.

Of all the ways Phichit had ever imagined he might die, this was definitely the worst.

A symphony of adrenaline sang through his veins, urging him to hang on just a bit longer.

Then everything shifted abruptly to the right.

Then everything was a blur.

Then everything was upside down.

Then everything hurt.

Then everything was still.

Then everything was cold.

Phichit’s limbs felt like they had all been pulled from their sockets; he felt like a rag-doll, like a marionette with cut strings. Something sharp dug into his back.

It took him a moment more to register that he was no longer on Vicchan’s back; he was on his own back, on the ground, in the forest, in the dirt.

He couldn't move, he could barely breathe.

He could still hear though. He could hear everything; the howling, the whinnying, the snarling, the braying, the gnashing, the stamping, the whimpering, the squealing.

Phichit struggled to roll to his side, seeing the last vestiges of the fight as Vicchan kicked at the closest wolves, raining heavy hooves down over their silky heads and they slithered in between his sturdy legs. The shire bore his teeth, snapping at a daring interloper who tried to go for his flank, before rounding on another scrawny grey nipping at his heels. He finally caught one with a firm back-kick, sending the shadowy canine sprawling on the forest floor a fair distance away.

The ominous pack hesitated for only a moment, but it gave Vicchan the perfect opportunity to flee.

Phichit watched helplessly as the stallion was swallowed by darkness.

The pack resumed the chase immediately, stalking their prey back into the tangle of gloom.

Phichit struggled to sit up slowly; as he rose, bits of lacquer dropped to the forest floor beneath him.

He had fallen on his new invention, his envelope, crushing it in his traveling cloak.

Oh well, at least he was alive.

For now.

He was lost in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the night, with no food, water or supplies, no map, no light, no horse, no money and no idea where he was.

Luckily, he hadn't been too badly injured when he had been thrown from Vicchan. His head hurt and everything was sore, especially his back where he had landed on the envelope box; but nothing felt broken, and he wasn't bleeding . . . so at least there was that.

Phichit gazed into the darkness of the forest, and his heart ached for poor Vicchan; he _loved_ animals, especially his _own_. Vicchan was _family_ ; if anything happened to him . . . Phichit would be inconsolable.

Phichit scrubbed roughly at his eyes, pushing back tears he knew would try to come. He didn't have time for that; Vicchan was a good horse, he was smart and strong and he would find his way home.

Phichit however . . .

A low growl from the bushes interrupted his train of thought.

Phichit slowly turned his head towards the noise.

Apparently not _all_ the wolves were after Vicchan.

One had been left behind.    

A scrawny grey wolf with white v-shaped markings on its forehead bared it’s fangs at Phichit; sloppy strings of saliva dripping from its jowls.

It was the one that had been kicked. It hadn't gotten up in time to join the others; now it was just him and Phichit.

Phichit looked around for something, _anything_ to defend himself . . .

His hand slowly closed around the little shards of lacquer. Not good. Better than nothing.

The wolf lunged; Phichit scrambled to his feet, sliding on the dirt. The wolf yapped gruffly and gnashed its teeth as it closed in; Phichit let loose his fist full of shrapnel.

He struck the wolf in the eyes, and it bayed piteously; Phichit ran for it.  

The wind whipped past his face as he sprinted through the foliage, desperately searching for higher ground; a tall rock, a sturdy branch, anything to put some distance between himself and the carnivore.

As he ran, the breeze blew colder; he shivered, and his fingers started to go numb. His feet slid as the dirt turned to snow under his shoes. He grasped blindly for a solid limb to haul himself up on, but his frozen digits slid on icy, frost-covered branches.

“Frost . . . in summer?” Phichit gasped. His breath became visible as he panted into the air.

All around him, the woods had been inexplicably plunged into winter; the moonlight glinted lazily off dainty icicles, shining like diamonds in the chilly air. Virgin snowdrifts glittered on either side of the slick, vacant path. The world was cast entirely in hues of blue and white and black; everything dark and cold and dazzling.

Suddenly, Phichit heard the dreaded snarling once again and knew the wolf was gaining; he dashed towards a promising maple tree, hoping the lowest limb was within his reach; praying he would find purchase on its frosty trunk.

As he barreled towards his sanctuary, the winter beauty betrayed him.

His feet slid on the icy path beneath and in his moment of vulnerability, the wolf found his opening.

Sharp teeth sank into Phichit’s right calf, an unrelenting vice, splashing crimson onto the canvas of blues.

Phichit’s screams tore the night asunder.

The wolf tugged backwards, dragging Phichit on his belly; snow riding up under his shirt and cloak as it did.

He fought to free himself from the wolf’s grasp, but the pain was searing, hot like a brand, and any resistance only intensified the agony.

“ _HELP_!”

Phichit shrieked and screeched and wailed, his instinctive cries of anguish piercing the night.

“ _PLEASE! SOMEONE! HELP! FOR MERCY’S SAKE HELP ME!_ ”

Maybe it was the shock . . . maybe it was the exhaustion or the cold; but something was starting to make Phichit go completely numb . . . dulling his senses . . . shutting him down from the outside in.

“ _AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!_ ”

. . . and it hurt . . .

. . . hurt so bad . . .

Now there was nothing to do but to let the numbness take him.

Tears filled his eyes, but his chest hurt too much to cry.

“ . . . ‘m sorry . . . Yuuri . . .”

Then:

The world became quiet; the wind calmed and the wolf ceased its antagonistic growling.

The world became motionless; the wolf stopped tugging at Phichit’s leg, though its fangs were still sunk firmly into flesh.

Phichit’s heart fluttered; terrified, but without the strength to hammer a staccato beat against his ribs.

In the silence and the stillness of the bizarre winter woods a faint chime began to sound; a discordant melody danced just at the edge of what Phichit could hear; haunting and ethereal and melancholy.

Without warning the wolf roughly released Phichit’s leg. Phichit let out a pained gasp, weakly looking over his shoulder to see what was happening.

The wolf was whimpering, backing away with its tail between its legs.

Suddenly, a tiny whirlwind formed on top of a nearby snow bank, gathering up a little heap of white fluff into a snowball. Then the gust of wind launched its snowball at the wolf; hitting it right on the nose.

The wolf yelped, turned-tail and skittered away; sliding on the ice as it went.

A barrage of animated snowballs followed it out; hitting it smartly on the rear repeatedly for good measure.

Phichit’s mind whirled; and though he was relieved he was no longer being torn to shreds by a wild animal, he wasn't entirely certain he was in any state to handle . . . whatever _this_ was.

His calf was gouged; there was no way he could walk, he couldn’t even stand if he wanted to.

He couldn't think straight, he was still going to die out here.

Yes, apparently he was going to freeze to death in a “magic forest”.

What a way to go.

A flash of movement caught his eye; he rolled over onto his back painfully to get a better view.

Massive, spear-like icicles were rising up from the ground behind him, blocking the path from which he came; the one down which the wolf had just retreated. The icicles rose up twelve feet into the air, and once they reached their full extension, began to bloom cross-guards, connecting themselves to one another, becoming a thick, impenetrable ice-gate.

To the sides of the gate, through the forest, along the border of the winter world, a wall began to build up ever so delicately, like spreading frost; and as it spread, it became more solid, turning into a thick sheet of solid ice; permanently penning him inside.

Phichit’s eyes became wide and his jaw hung slack.

This was not good.

Phichit remained so entranced by the marvel in front of him; he did not hear the near-silent sound of approaching footsteps.

A voice rang out behind him, low and smooth and richly accented, crisp and clear in the frosty air of the enchanted winter night.

“ _O bozhe_ . . . what do we have here?”

 

*****

 

“Ah!”

Yuuri hissed and yanked his hand into the air; far away from the stubborn thistle he had been trying to dislodge from his peas in vain. It was all tangled in with the delicate shoots and vines, and both his hands were covered in tiny little nicks and scratches from the previously failed attempts at removal. He’d been at it since dawn.

“Ughhh . . . I can’t believe I’m being thwarted by a _flower_ ,” Yuuri grumbled in frustration.

He glared venomously at the smug little prick.

Maybe Phichit had something in his workshop that would help . . . a small trowel, or some pliers or some scissors . . .

Or, you know . . . _gloves_.

Yuuri rolled his eyes, chastising himself for his own impatient carelessness, when a loud whinny and a raucous thundering of hooves made him snap to attention.

Vicchan burst through the underbrush at the northeastern edge of the field; nowhere near the road into the forest at northern most point of the property.

Yuuri jumped, falling back onto his heels in a daze as he watched Vicchan plow towards the paddock on the west side of the farm near the workshop; careening past the vegetable garden where Yuuri sat, heading straight for the gate that Phichit had lazily left open and not stopping until he reached the rain barrel outside the small stable.

Yuuri’s heart thundered like the horse’s hooves.

Vicchan shouldn’t be back; not _HERE_ , not _YET_ and not _ALONE_.

Yuuri scrambled to his feet, thistle forgotten, and raced towards the Shire horse. He vaulted the paddock fence in one swift motion, coming to rest beside the heaving steed, taking extra care to approach from the side, so as not to startle him.

Vicchan was guzzling water like his life depended on it; like he had been running all night.  

Yuuri stamped down his panic, reaching out gently to pat Vicchan’s neck; it was flushed and damp with sweat. He looked over the bay horse carefully; Vicchan seemed tired, but there were no injuries or gashes, he wasn't acting aggressively and he hadn't been limping. The saddle was slightly askew and by now the bit would be bothering him, but . . . whatever had happened out there, Vicchan had at least made it back safe and sound.

“Good boy . . . good boy Vicchan . . .” He cooed, his quivering voice betraying how fearful he felt, “. . . where’s Phichit, boy? Where is he? What happened, Vicchan?” tears brimmed in Yuuri’s eyes as his whole body started to shake.

No . . . please . . . _please, mercy, no_ . . . not Phichit . . . he couldn't . . . he _couldn't_ . . .

Vicchan snorted softly, pushing Yuuri gently in the chest with his soaking muzzle.

The slight force unbalanced Yuuri, turning him towards the forest.

“He’s still in there?” Yuuri’s words came out weak and watery.

 Vicchan tossed his head, shaking out his mane, then turned and brushed past Yuuri, walking back in the direction of the woods; nudging him as he went.

The shire made it almost all the way back to the paddock gate, but stopped short when he realized Yuuri wasn't following him. He turned around, snorted and stamped his hoof impatiently. When Yuuri still didn't snap out of his anxious stupor, the stallion doubled back and flicked the poor boy in the face with his tail.

Yuuri sputtered, then reached out for the saddle; his shaking hands were still practiced enough to quickly re-adjust the saddle blanket and re-tighten the girth for safety and comfort.

He was going to owe Vicchan big time.

“Good boy . . . good boy, Vicchan,” the words fell from Yuuri’s lips over and over; repeating them like a prayer that would hold everything together.

Five minutes . . . he needed five minutes.

He sprinted from the paddock, shutting the gate tightly; giving Vicchan time to graze and drink while he grabbed some essentials; food and water of his own, a lantern, a cloak, bandages, anything and everything he could think to bring. He stuffed it all in a sack, whipped it over his shoulder and hurried out the cottage door.

He flung open the paddock gate wide and mounted Vicchan quickly, gathering up the reins and signalling Vicchan to go.

The Shire bolted for the tree-line immediately, but Yuuri tugged him the other way when a flash of inspiration hit.

“One stop first, Vicchan, just trust me!” Yuri pleaded.

Vicchan acquiesced and they turned, racing back towards The Village.

They flew through the marketplace dangerously; speeding past people and carts and dollies and crates and livestock without a care.

At last Yuuri was pulling Vicchan to a halt in front of Minako’s door. He tumbled clumsily from the saddle, hauling Vicchan behind him.

The thunder he brought down upon her door could have put a Storm God to shame.

“MINAKO!” He was certain his screams could be heard clear across town, “MINAKO, MINAKO!”

Finally, the door opened to reveal a very displeased looking tutor, still in her sleeping-gown, long waterfall of dark hair in a messy knot on the top of her head.

“Yuuri, do you have any idea what time – ”

“Something happened to Phichit,” Yuuri interrupted, voice cracking, eyes watering, hands shaking.

Minako was immediately awake; alert and alarmed, “What? Yuuri, what’s going on?”

“I . . . I don't know . . . He left for the Festival yesterday, and Vicchan showed up at home this morning . . . _without him_ ,”

Minako understood immediately, “Go Yuuri. I’ll take care of everything. _Just go find him_ ,” she ordered.

Yuuri nodded, his mind racing, “If . . . if we’re not back by tomorrow . . . or by tonight? Or should we say tomorrow?”

“Yuuri, I’ll figure it out, just GO!” Minako begged.  

“Right!” Yuuri agreed bracingly. He was back up on Vicchan in seconds, racing away through The Village, towards the farm and the forest and whatever terrors lay beyond.

They breached the border of trees, passing through the iridescent foliage in a blur; quickly gaining ground as they sped down the wide, hard-packed dirt of the well-traveled forest road.

Yuuri galloped over the first league, eyes and ears pealed for any signs of his brother; even as a voice in the back of his mind whispered how unlikely it would be for Phichit to be lost and stranded so close to home.  

He soon slowed to a trot, knowing that Vicchan could not keep up such a rapid pace, and not wanting to miss any signs of what may have happened to Phichit.

He had five leagues in total to cover between The Village and The Town by the Sea; and perhaps more than that, if Phichit had gone off course and not reached his destination at all.

They continued on like that for some time, Vicchan pressing on at a desperate trot, while Yuuri scanned the woods in vain, calling out for Phichit as he went. This repeated for three leagues, until they came to a nearly invisible fork in the road.

Yuuri himself would have missed it, if Vicchan had not continued straight ahead.

“Vicchan!” Yuuri hissed, tugging at the reins, “The Town by the Sea is that . . .”

Realization dawned on him suddenly.

“ . . . way”

Phichit had missed the turn.

He had left too late in the day.

The sun had gone down before he had reached The Town by the Sea.

He must have been fussing with the map, not paying attention.

He hadn’t seen this little fork.

He had kept going straight ahead, off the well-worn road and right on to this forgotten little offshoot.

And who knew where he had ended up?

“Good boy, Vicchan,” Yuuri praised once again, “Hut, hut,”

And the two were off once more at a trot, down the mysterious pathway.

This route was much different than the busy, well-traveled forest road; this trail was winding; overgrown and mossy; green and thick with brambles and bushes and branches. It was wide enough to ride, but looked like it hadn’t been used in a millennia.

“Phichit!” Yuuri cried louder, “Phichit!”

His eyes flicked through the foliage desperately, looking for something, anything . . .

Then, a flittering movement caught his eye.

“Woah, Vicchan!”

Yuuri pulled Vicchan to a gentle stop, dismounting quickly.

Something fluttered in a nearby tree; wedged in a low branch. It was thin, fragile, eggshell in colour. Yuuri reached up and plucked it gently from its resting place, unfolding it reverently.

His heart soared while his stomach plummeted; eyes scanning the beaten up piece of parchment in his hands. 

Phichit’s map.

Yuuri knew it was his brother’s; his writing was on it. Little notes here and there scrawled over the years; a tavern annotated simply with, “ _best mead_ ”, an inn marked “ _Mean Innkeeper (ugly moustache) DON’T STAY HERE!!!_ ”

His brother had definitely come this way.

Maybe he was close . . . maybe Yuuri wasn’t too late.

“PHICHIT!”

Yuuri folded the map carefully and tucked it away in his traveling cloak, scanning the area carefully for any more signs of Phichit’s presence.

He rushed a little further down the path, Vicchan plodding along behind him faithfully.

He heard a crunch underfoot.

Phichit’s lantern.

Had Phichit stopped to rest? Had he fallen? Had he been chased?

Had he been robbed?

Yuuri’s breaths were coming fast and shallow.

He knelt down, gingerly gathering up the fractured light as best he could, wrapping the pieces in a handkerchief and stowing them away; his eyes stung, and he willed his tears to wait just a few minutes longer.

Phichit was close; Yuuri could feel it.  

He had to be close.

HE HAD TO BE. 

“Phichit!? PHICHIT!?”

His calls remained unanswered; dangling limply among the green leaves in the warm summer air.

Yuuri stood up briskly, mounting Vicchan and taking off once more.

He remained extra vigilant as they made their way through the woods. Phichit was nearby, that much was certain. He couldn’t afford to miss a single clue; not one sight, not one sound.

But there was something . . . else.

It was still morning, barely noon; it was the middle of summer and the sun was shining, it was hot and green and beautiful and serene . . .

And yet . . .

Something about this place felt . . . odd. There was something wrong here; something eerie.

Yuuri shook his head; nonsense.

He was worried about Phichit; that was all. It was just his anxiety getting the better of him; nothing more.

But Vicchan seemed to feel it too.

The shire subtly slowed from a trot to a walk . . . then eventually stopped altogether, pawing at the ground. Shifting. Stamping.

Yuuri tried to gently coax him forward along the path, and Vicchan tried to obey, but after three steps he backed right up again.

Yuuri dismounted, trying to locate the source of Vicchan’s discomfort. When he could find nothing, he merely calmed the steed with soft words and touches, fed him a carrot from the pack, and wrapped a soft kerchief over his eyes as a blinder.

“Sorry boy . . .  but we have to find Phichit” Yuuri apologized. He took a firm hold of the reins, continuing onward; a now-docile Vicchan followed.

Something on the forest floor caught the light; glinting in the morning sun. Yuuri bent forward to pick it up.

In his hand he held a small sliver of lacquered wood; a piece of Phichit’s envelope.

Yuuri’s fist tightened around it, his resolve steeled, and he pressed on.

As he walked, he noticed something strange; a leaf edged with frost, a rock dusted with snow, a small icicle hanging from a branch.

“What . . ?” Yuuri gasped, as a chill breeze whipped around him. Vicchan snorted behind him, tossing his head.

And still, Yuuri pressed on.

As he did, the snow became thicker, the woods became frostier and the wind became colder; the seasons changed around him and he entered a wondrous winter realm.

“How . . . how is this possible?” Yuuri breathed, words dripping in disbelief as he gaped at the frozen forest.

It was beautiful . . . magical . . . pearly snowdrifts glittered brightly in the sunlight, frosted tree branches laid bare like shining crystal ornaments, the world lit up in dazzling whites and icy blues and sunny yellows and blushing pinks; everything dripping with gold and silver and diamonds; so still and so silent and so serene.

It took Yuuri’s breath away.

Then he saw the footprints; the only mark upon the otherwise unscathed canvas.

Canine paw prints. Big ones.  A wolf.

And shoe prints.

Not his own.

Phichit.

“No,”

Yuuri sped off across the snowy landscape as fast as he could, Vicchan thumping along behind him.

He rounded a corner and suddenly slid to a stop; halted by the sight of a massive gate.

His eyes grew wide.

It was unlike anything he had ever seen before; the gate was enormous and made entirely of ice; thick and blue with deep white gouges; patterned so that the spires and cross-guards formed what looked to be a massive snowflake. However, this was no gentle, delicate child-like thing; its edges were harsh, jagged, pointed and unwelcoming; circular and foreboding, as if this particular snowflake were made from a criss-cross of interlocking halberds.

Stretching out on either side of the gate was a massive wall of ice and snow. It was thick and slick and impossible to scale; topped with jagged and asymmetrical ramparts of ice. At the foot of the wall, running along the entire length, massive, impossibly sharp icicles rose up out of the ground; reminiscent of archer’s stakes.

It was ominous and imposing, but both sets of tracks led right past the gate, to whatever lay beyond; Yuuri had no choice but to approach.

“Hullo!” Yuuri called, with as much confidence as he could muster. His voice warbled gracelessly in the serenity of the winter stillness.

There was no reply.

“Please . . . I . . . I’m looking for my brother. I think he’s been this way!”

Still no reply.

Perhaps the gate was unmanned . . . but how? Surely such a thing would need someone to . . ?

Yuuri took a tentative step forward, reaching out towards the frozen entryway. As his fingers brushed over the icy ridges of the gate, it began to rumble, like a glacier shifting, and slowly slid open of its own accord, swinging over the snowy ground.

Yuuri flinched back instinctively; expecting to be attacked.

But nothing happened.

Perhaps . . . he was being invited in? Both sides of the gate were fully open, firm and welcoming . . . and completely deserted.

Yuuri charged through before he could change his mind. The instant he crossed the threshold, the gateway closed behind him with a boom that echoed through the frozen woods.

There was no turning back now.

Yuuri scanned his surroundings; here the path had opened up a bit more, the trees became sparser and the road dissolved into open fields beyond the tree-line; far to the left, a small, frozen gully wound its way through the snowy undergrowth, and just to his right a massive maple stood as a proud sentry by the edge of the woods.

His eyes were drawn instantly to the forest floor directly before him; both sets of tracks had stopped a mere ten feet away, where the snow had been thoroughly disturbed, as if someone had fallen.

Yuuri dashed over immediately, sliding to his knees; the packed snow was splattered carelessly with crimson and little splinters of lacquered wood.  

And beyond that?

Nothing.

The trail ended there.

There were no more footprints, no more bits of lacquer, no more drops of red.

Impossible!

Yuuri’s mid reeled; relief and panic and agony all fighting for purchase in his mind.

The wolf had _caught_ Phichit . . . that much was certain; but all evidence showed that things hadn't ended there.

So where was Phichit _now_?

“PHICHIT!” Yuuri hollered helplessly; as though calling his name would magically summon him.

“PHICHIT!”

“ ** _PHICHIT!_** ”

Now he could not stop the tears running hotly down his cheeks. His whole body shook, wracking with sobs, aching with failure.

The trail had ended and Phichit hadn’t been found. 

There would have been signs if the wolf had . . . had _finished_ him . . . more blood . . . or a body . . . or more disturbances in the snow where his body might have been dragged away.

But if Phichit had survived . . .

Then _where was he_? Where were the footprints leading away from the scene of the attack?

Yuuri roughly wiped his eyes; they stung terribly from the cold, the little wet trails from the tears already frozen on his cheeks.

None of it made any sense, but there was only one way left to go.

He stood slowly on shaking legs and tugged gently at Vicchan’s reins; pressing forward once again.

He slogged wetly over the snow and at long last broke through the tree-line.

What he saw before him nearly made him fall to his knees.

Stretched out beyond the edge of the woods was a vision unlike anything he’d ever seen; a lavish arctic courtyard encased entirely in ice and snow. Frosted hedges rose up along the border in intricate patterns, snow-dusted shrubberies edging the property like the lace trim of a frock-coat; through the middle was a massive promenade of slick ice, glaring harshly in the bright noon-day sun. Running in a line down the center, carefully crafted alabaster fountains spouted wave after wave of frozen water; long suspended in permanent sculptures, shining like cut glass as their iridescent droplets shimmered in the frigid air.

Rising up at the far end of the elegant courtyard was a magnificent castle, similarly adorned with frosty embellishments. Though the rich stonework of the manor was still somewhat visible beneath the sheath of sleet, the snow heaped upon its frame like moss and the ice climbed upon its sides like ivy; icicles grew long from the ramparts like creeping stalactites and great icy stalagmites grew up from the foundation to meet them, swallowing the castle in an arctic maw; like a hound with jaws of winter and fangs of frost.

Massive steps wound their way up from the courtyard to meet large, imposing front doors, forebodingly slick and frosted; a warning to any traveler who even so much as dared to look upon the manor. 

With its towering spires and jagged turrets and sharp, overgrown ramparts of ice and snow and sleet, the majestic manor looked much more like a cathedral than a castle; and Yuuri hesitated, fearing whatever God might be worshiped there. 

But, if there were any answers to be found, Yuuri knew they would be inside that bleak and bitter fortress.

So he took a deep breath, inhaling a lungful of air so frigid it burned, and slowly picked his way towards the Castle of Ice. 

Crisp snow crunched underfoot as he crossed the pallid courtyard, the chilly breeze nipping at his ears as he went.

It was like walking through a world of mirrors; everything clear and sharp and much too bright. The fountains towered over him like crystal gargoyles, and a shiver that had nothing to do with the frigid temperatures made his shoulders tremble as he passed.

At long last he stood before the massive stairway; the castle loomed over him ominously, but he had come this far and he would not be deterred.  

Yuuri tied Vicchan’s lead securely to a notch in the stone stair; sheltering him from the wind on the inside curve of the steps. He gave the brave steed a gentle pat on the muzzle and slid the kerchief blinder off, in case they needed to make a quick getaway.

“I’ll be right back, Vicchan,” He promised quietly, and before he could change his mind, he began to ascend the great icy stairs.

He clung to the once-marble railing for support, as his feet found no grip on the frost-slick steps beneath him, and slowly dragged himself up the wide, flat staircase until he came face to face with the towering double doors he had seen from the edge of the woods.

A small iron torch flickered to the left; the flame feeble and dying under the harsh strain of the cold.

The doors were a deep, heavy walnut; almost black beneath the layers of frost.

Yuuri didn't hesitate; he knocked harshly on the door; his knuckles blistering at the chill; fingers numb from the cold of the rail.

The doors opened soundlessly, beckoning him in; just as he had assumed they would.

Yuuri stepped inside.

It was grand, yet dim and he was surprised to discover that not even the lush interior had been spared from the icy grip of the otherworldly winter.

The floors were a polished white marble with gold veins running through the striations; the ceilings were vaulted, the windows stately, and every single fixture seemed to be made of gold; just as they all seemed painted with frost, fogged with condensation, blanketed with biting dampness; clouded over with that same ethereal chill.

It was like stepping into a dusty attic, though the dust was not particulate dirt, but rather little flakes of snow and ice . . . like the inside of a snow globe.

Despite the frost, it was strangely warm inside the rich, luxurious Castle, as if there were nothing bewitched about the place at all; Yuuri’s numb fingers tingled sharply as they warmed and sensation returned. The snow on his breeches melted, soaking him from the knees down.

He was standing in a massive entryway; in front of him a grand staircase with golden railings; to the left, a corridor which went on further than he could see; the same lay to the right. Soft white rays of light fought their way in through a large window above; covered over with layers of snow and frost.

Yuuri marshaled his courage, “Hullo!” He called out as loud as he dared.

“Please . . . I don't mean to intrude . . . I’m looking for my brother . . .”

The only reply that came was his own voice, echoed back at him from the empty chambers.

Yuuri paced nervously, waiting a moment or two more.

When still nobody came, he resolved to venture further in.  

He turned to the right, and slowly crept onward.

As he went further, the frost began to recede; like it hadn't reached quite this far inward yet. Yuuri gazed at the castle around him, soaking it all in. He had never been in a castle before, though he had read about them, and had heard all about the one in which Minako used to live. He had always dreamed he might see one someday; but he had never pictured it happening quite like this.

The castle was richly decorated with beautiful portraits, sculptures and various artworks of all kinds, and Yuuri couldn’t help but admire them as he passed through the gilded hallway.

It was . . . stunning . . . magnificent; and without the chill of the wind and the frost numbing his fingers, his fear began to ebb, ever so slightly.

“Hullo!” Yuuri called again, as he paced the hallway, “Is anyone here? Please, I’m looking for my brother . . . I think he may have come this way!”

The first room he came upon was a small sitting room; mahogany floor with a rich burgundy carpet, dark papered walls, plush sitting chairs in front of a smothered fireplace, a little tea-stand between them.

He walked gingerly over to the tea stand; there sat a little china tea set, white with a golden floral inlay. There was a shapely teapot with a matching tray serving up half-eaten biscuits, and two little teacups; one empty, one half full. The tea was cold.

Yuuri picked up the half-empty teacup, examining it pensively.

Someone was here. Someone one was here _recently_.

His heart fluttered hopefully.

Phichit?

“Hullo?” Yuuri called once more, replacing the teacup carefully on the stand.

This time, he received an answer.

“Ahh . . . I _thought_ I heard someone wandering about down here . . .”

The voice was rich and luxurious, like the castle itself; deep and seductive and sonorous.

Yuuri jumped, after all this time, he hadn’t _really_ expected a reply.

Swallowing his embarrassment, he turned to face the voice’s owner, an apology on the tip of his tongue - 

But when he saw to whom the voice belonged, the words died in his throat.

Standing in the doorway was what Yuuri could only describe as some sort of . . . _Beast_.

He was enormous, at least eight feet tall, and massively broad, taking up almost the entire frame of the door. His shoulders were bulky and hunched, long, thick arms reaching nearly to his knees; his hands were huge, more like paws, and at the end of each digit was a long, perilously-sharp onyx claw. The feet on which he stood were mammoth and digitigrade in nature, and also adorned with the same black talons.

The clothing he wore was scant; a pair of too-small black velvet breeches that reached just past his knee, and a heavy claret-coloured brocade cloak which swept to the floor; clasped about his shoulders. The rest of him was covered, from head to toe, in silky, silver fur; a bushy tail flicked lazily beneath the dark brocade of the cape.

A mane of the same sleek, silver hair grew out lush and long from the crown of his head, cascading down across his back and shoulders in shaggy, platinum tresses. Two large, jagged, jet-black horns curled back on either side of his forehead, starting at his temples and tapering into sharp, shiny points; not unlike a ram’s.

His face was all lupine; ghastly and monstrous. Fuzzy, angular ears protruded from the pewter scruff adjacent to his horns, and he greeted the world with a canine muzzle. The wolfish under-bite did nothing to conceal the row of large serrated fangs gleaming from his jaws; they rose up harshly from his lower lip, almost tusk-like in their length and severity.

But by far, The Beast’s most unsettling features were his _eyes_.

They were a bright, stunning arctic blue; alert and full of life, as if sustained by the very soul of winter itself. The hue was vibrant and brilliant; a shade that an artist might call Cerulean or Robin’s Egg or Azure. If this winter realm turned ice to diamonds and snow to lace and sleet to pearls, then those eyes were the finest aquamarine gemstones in all the world; the only splash of colour in an otherwise pale and barren wasteland.

But more than their liveliness and beauty, those dazzling eyes glittered with something _else_ . . . something _greater_ ; a certain poise and tact and intelligence . . . and Yuuri didn't know if that should make him feel less afraid . . . or _more_.

Yuuri tried to take a step back, but he was halted by one of the plush sitting chairs; he reached a hand back to steady himself; heart racing like a jack-rabbit.

The Beast merely observed him, patiently waiting for Yuuri to reply. When he did not, the Beast spoke again, prompting him with a gentle, “. . . and, who might you be, Monsieur?”

“My name is Katsuki Yuuri,” Yuuri blurted gracelessly, mouth working faster than his mind, “Please . . . I’m so sorry to intrude . . . I’m looking for my brother. He went missing in the woods nearby . . . and I . . . I followed the trail here . . . I . . . I’m just so worried! I fear that something terrible has happened to him. Please, you haven’t . . .  I mean . . . I don’t suppose you have, have you? Seen him, that is?”  

Yuuri’s chest was quaking uncontrollably; he should be fleeing; running for his life. Instead he was rooted firmly in place, suing for compassion from some sort of . . . creature?

But Phichit meant more to him than the world, and he would do anything to bring his brother home safe; and anyway, The Beast was blocking the only exit, and Yuuri was certain The Beast could outrun him, especially on his home turf.

No; better to throw himself on the mercy of The Beast and hope for the best.

There was something about this place; something about the art on the walls and the half-empty teacup and the way The Beast held himself; the way that he spoke and the look in his eyes that made Yuuri feel that this was the right choice to make.

The Beast narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

“You are speaking of Master Chulanont,” he said at last; it was a statement, not a question.

“You . . . you know Phichit!” Yuuri cried, certain he would collapse under the sudden barrage of emotions, “He’s . . . you . . . thank you! Is he . . . is he alright? Is he here?” Yuuri babbled electrically as his hand raked through his hair, too overcome to think straight; his host’s claws and fangs and eyes reduced to a trifling detail, the enchanted winter woods nothing more than a passing fancy in light of the recent development.

The Beast regarded Yuuri with fascination before answering evenly, “I assure you, Master Chulanont is quite well. He had a rather nasty encounter with some wolves, but is recovering nicely in the Eastern Suite. I can show you to him, if you like,”

Relief crashed over Yuuri, replacing dread with euphoria; tears stung the edges of his eyes and he finally felt like he could breathe again.

“Yes . . . please . . . I . . . thank you. _Thank you so much_ ,” Yuuri answered emphatically, stepping towards The Beast with a bow, “I . . . I can't tell you how much this means to me,” 

The Beast was silent a moment, “Your kindness is . . . appreciated, but I have done nothing so praiseworthy, I assure you,” his icy gaze flickered briefly over Yuuri, before he taciturnly cleared his throat, “Follow me, please. This way,”

The Beast turned with a swish of his claret cape, leaving Yuuri to trail behind him through the desolate, frozen Castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "O bozhe" = O, Боже = "Oh dear"/"Oh my".


	3. The Dinner, The Discovery & The Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri and Phichit are reunited. The Beast holds a banquet. Secrets are revealed, and Yuuri makes a difficult choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 is finally here! Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> This one got SUPER extra long, but there are a TON of new characters appearing this time around, and I had a lot of fun writing, so I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at https://silverscribblesuniverse.tumblr.com
> 
>  
> 
> TECHNICAL NOTES:
> 
> As always, if you see anything weird in my translations, let me know and I'll fix it!
> 
> *** Swiss German VS High German: It is my intention that Christophe and Masumi are speaking Swiss German to one another, rather than High German - but in the course of my research I couldn't really figure out how to make that obvious in my writing. I could absolutely be wrong, but from what I've gathered, the two languages are SPOKEN very differently, but WRITTEN very similarly, with very close spelling/grammar/sentence structure, etc - so I wasn't 100% sure how to convey the difference. I tried to use as much colloquial Swiss German as possible, and if any of you lovely Swiss German/High German speaking folks have any other tips, please let me know, because I am genuinely interested in learning more! 
> 
> FIND TRANSLATIONS IN THE 'END NOTES'
> 
>  
> 
> ***CONTENT WARNINGS FOR CHAPTER 3
> 
> LANGUAGE AND/OR VIOLENCE - Please be aware that there may be the occasional curse word/violent scene in this work. 
> 
> ***A NOTE ABOUT NON-CON/DUB-CON:
> 
> This work will contain no explicit sexual content, though it will contain romantic content, such as kissing and/or implied sexual interest, like characters talking about being in love, innuendos, etc.
> 
> This Chapter contains sexual innuendo. 
> 
> Also, as previously noted - this work involves themes regarding unwanted romantic/sexual advances and the rejection of personal autonomy. These themes can be a sensitive subject for many, so please proceed with caution.

“ _What_? There’s _another_ one?”

Yuri Plisetsky glowered down from the marble banister, watching the Master of the Castle guide yet another human boy towards the Eastern Suite.

Beside him, Otabek Altin raised his eyes ever so slightly, leaning forward to get a better view. “So it would appear,” he noted evenly.

“Pfft, some ‘Enchanted Castle’,” Yuri scoffed, “I thought it was supposed to be ‘lost to time’ and ‘hidden from the outside word’ and all that other bull . . . but it can’t even keep away a single lousy tourist” the teen made an unflattering face. 

Otabek turned an austere gaze on his grouchy companion, “So?” he challenged, “Isn’t that a good thing?”

Yuri huffed, “Of _course_ it’s a _good_ thing, _Beka_!” he snapped, “It’s just . . . _weird_ , isn’t it? Years and years of _nothing_ , all of a sudden these _humans_ just start _showing up_? Why now? What took them so long?”

Otabek thought a moment, “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. His eyes flicked to Yuri, and he softened, seeing the agitation writ so openly across his friend’s features, “They’re here now. Does it really matter why, Yura?”

Yuri did not meet Otabek’s eyes, “I guess not,” he pouted petulantly; stomping down on the marble banister with a cute little “clink”.

Otabek closed his eyes and steeled his expression.

Beside him, Yuri growled.

“Beka . . . _don’t you dare laugh or I swear_ . . .”

Otabek turned away slowly so Yuri wouldn’t catch the smirk attempting to break through his carefully composed demeanor.

He cleared his throat, “Of course . . . I would never.”

Once he had collected himself, Otabek turned back to face his closest companion; a precocious, ill-tempered, fifteen-year-old kitchen-boy-turned-teacup.

Yuri was sulking at him; something between a pout and a glare. It did nothing to guilt Otabek, who by now could read Yuri’s moods like a star chart; and knew without question that this particular outburst was nothing but bluster.

Otabek didn't mean to make light of Yuri’s foul mood, but he couldn’t help it; it was just so hard to take his best friend seriously when the raging tempest of teenage angst stemmed from such a sweet porcelain face of floral pastels and golden filigree.

Yuri really was a work of art.

That _mouth of his_ on the other hand . . .

But for better or worse, he was Otabek’s best friend; his closest companion, his colleague, confidant and accomplice; the greatest joy in his life and the biggest pain in his ass.

Otabek wasn't certain exactly _how_ Yuri managed to be both at the same time . . . all he knew was that he wouldn’t trade the moody little china mug for all the riches in the world.

“It’s not my fault I got turned into a stupid teacup, ok?” Yuri grumbled defensively, “Not all of us got as lucky as _you_ when we transformed” 

Otabek’s eyes narrowed quizzically, “. . . lucky?”

Yuri’s gaped at his friend in disbelief, “Yes, obviously, _Beka_!” he scoffed, “I’m stuck as some dumb little teacup, while you get to be an awesome _dagger_! How is _that_ fair?”

Confusion coloured Otabek’s expression; he stood before the surly teacup on a rounded silver blade; 5 inches long, and the width of a lady’s finger. His human facial features were morphed into the handle; heavy pewter moulded in the shape of a large, but simple, fleur de lis. A red gem of cut glass glinted on his hilt; like a twisted imitation of a gentleman’s cravat.

Otabek blinked slowly, realization dawning on him; once again he held a smirk back behind a blank expression.

“Yura . . . I’m a letter opener”

Yuri’s eyes went wide.

He stared at Otabek.

Otabek stared back.

Yuri broke first.

“Pffft . . . _I know that_ , _Beka_ ” he sputtered, “But what I meant was . . . between the _two of us_ . . . you look _more_ like . . . _I was just trying to make a point, ok_?”

“Certainly. Anything you say,” Otabek agreed triumphantly. He didn’t buy it for a second.

“Ugh, _forget it_ ,” Yuri mumbled, turning away and bouncing off the rail; Otabek could have sworn he saw a blush cross that cream-coloured porcelain. He smirked victoriously.

“Come on, Beka!” Yuri called from the carpeted floor, “We should go let the others know about that _new human_ . . . I want to see the look on Mila’s _big dumb face_ when _I_ get to tell everyone about him _before she does_!”

“Coming,” Otabek returned, before descending after his charge. Yuuri was already halfway down the hall; disappearing around the corner.

A fond smile crept onto Otabek’s face as he followed.

“Yuri Plisetsky . . . what am I going to do with you?”

 

*****

 

Yuuri followed The Beast in silence as they made their way through the monumental halls; the former too entranced by the splendour of his surroundings to form a sentence, the latter too reserved to extend an invitation to converse.

They made no noise, save the faint scuffling of Yuuri’s soft leather shoes as they traversed the glittering castle; The Beast’s massive paws made nary a sound as he trod over the shining marble.

Soon, Yuuri’s nervous nature began to get the best of him, and he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Usually he didn't mind silence, but this was a bit . . . awkward; unnerving. 

He should probably say something . . .

“I’m sorry . . .” he began contritely, voice echoing through the silence of the frosty halls, “I . . . I’ve just realized that I haven’t even asked who you are. My apologies . . . that’s . . . that’s terribly rude of me,”

The Beast stopped in his tracks; almost as if he had forgotten Yuuri was there. He looked back over his shoulder.

“I am the master of this castle,” He answered; formally, but graciously.

He looked ahead once more and continued walking.

Yuuri nodded and trotted after him; apparently The Beast wasn't one for words.

“If I may . . .” Yuuri pressed delicately, “what . . . is this place? Sorry! That’s not . . . what I mean to say, is . . . I . . . I don't exactly know where I am, at the moment, so I was wondering . . . I was wondering which castle this is?” He couldn't help the intrigue and excitement edging their way into to his interrogation; he had practically memorized his atlas at home, if he just knew the castle by name . . . 

“It’s not any of consequence” The Beast replied quietly. This time he did not look back; he spoke like he was talking to himself, rather than Yuuri, “Merely an old, forgotten place . . .  nothing more,”

The answer was cryptic; Yuuri wasn't certain what to make of it.  

He swallowed hard, throat dry, “Oh . . . I see . . .” he responded uncertainly.

The duo ascended the grand staircase by the entryway; silent and awkward once again.

They turned right, towards the east wing, where the corridors became slightly narrower and the rooms more numerous; though the ceilings were just as high. The floor was laid with an intricate pattern of interlocking diamond-shaped tiles in sky blue and creamy white and shimmering gold. The walls were white plaster with gold trim; the ceilings arched and vaulted. Their way was lit with shimmering glass candle fixtures and golden sconces, and every so often they would pass by a set of double-doors along the wall. Each looked the same; white and gold like the walls, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, with looping gold knockers. None stood open.  

Yuuri’s eyes were once more drawn back to his host; the swishing of the claret cape was mesmerizing as the massive Beast lead him through the opulent manor.

As if he could feel Yuuri’s eyes on him, The Beast’s gaze flickered back to his ward, “My apologies . . . it . . . has been some time since I have had guests . . . I’m certain my conversation leaves something to be desired,” he admitted ruefully. 

“It’s alright,” Yuuri responded automatically; he recognized that self-deprecating tone of voice instantly, having used it many times himself. “It’s . . . been a long, strange day for all of us, I think . . .” he offered gently, “. . . I hope my brother and I haven’t caused you too much trouble,”

The Beast slowed, falling into step beside him.

“No . . . no trouble at all,” The Beast assured him softly, with a gentle shake of his large, shaggy head.

Yuuri nodded; a small, tired smile cropping up as he did so.

They continued on like that in amiable silence.

Yuuri gazed around him in awe as they passed by all the gilded treasures of the castle; magnificent paintings in golden frames, crystal chandeliers, bejeweled vases, decorative suites of armour polished and gleaming. It was like something out of one of his most brilliant daydreams; like the backdrop to one of Minako’s most scandalous stories. It was all so . . . elegant and luxurious and . . . _extravagant_.

Yuuri chanced a quick glance back up at his behemoth host.

He was still enormous, brutish and scruffy, with horns and claws and fangs and those haunting blue eyes . . . but for the life of him, Yuuri couldn’t seem to remember what had frightened him so when they had first met.

Voices at the end of the hall brought Yuuri out of his perfumed stupor.

They spoke softly to one another; both voices were male, but one was deep and harsh, while the other was a bright, round tenor. The language they spoke was unfamiliar to Yuuri; he couldn't catch any of what they were saying.

Yuuri squinted to look ahead; trying to catch a glimpse of who the voices might belong to.

Surely no one _else_ lived here in the castle . . . not with . . . not with _him_?

Or . . . were there _more like him_?

Hadn't The Beast himself said he didn't keep any company?

This place just kept getting stranger.   

It wasn't that dark in the corridor, but Yuuri couldn't _see_ anyone else there with them; they had nearly covered all of it, and yet the voices continued.

At last, they reached the end of the hall; a frosted window capped the length of it, and a stately set of white double-doors greeted them on the left; white, with gold trim and knockers, an entire story tall, and closed; the same as the others.

To the right stood a mahogany serving table with a turquoise runner, beneath a framed picture of a Grecian Banquet; satyrs, nymphs and dryads all carousing carelessly.

Yuuri then discovered the source of the voices.

On the serving table stood an intricately moulded, two-foot-tall, three-pronged, golden candelabrum with half-melted white beeswax candles, next to a finely crafted, one-and-a-half-foot-tall, redwood mantle clock with a glass door and golden pendulum.

Both were beautiful, obviously well-made and expensive objects; and they were currently engaged in an intensely _secretive_ conversation, completely unaware of Yuuri’s arrival; as well as the Beasts’.

Yuuri felt he must surely be going mad. Talking candles? Talking clocks? His eyebrows knit together in confusion momentarily.

No. No, this must be some sort of silly parlour trick or new-fangled invention; a hidden instrument or noise-maker, surely. He had lived with Phichit long enough to know that with a little ingenuity, simple technology could work wonders.  

Yuuri’s host cast an apologetic glance in his direction, before clearing his throat authoritatively.

Then, right before Yuuri’s eyes, both the clock and the candelabrum resignedly turned their attention to The Beast; speaking simultaneously.

“Yes? how can I _serve_ you, _Master_?”

“What? Is there something you needed – ”

And as they did, any last lingering expectations of normalcy vanished from Yuuri’s mind; fleeing like rats from a sinking ship.  

For _not only_ did these particular items have _voices_ ; they had _faces_ as well. They moved. They spoke. They emoted. They were completely anthropomorphized.

Enchanted.

Animated objects.

Yuuri could do nothing but stand there, stunned.

Just when he had thought he had seen everything.

The clock and the candelabrum seemed to settle on Yuuri the same time as Yuuri settled on them; and with the same levels of complete and utter disbelief.

The humanoid trinkets froze, looking between themselves quickly; seeming to come to a silent consensus to save face and defer to The Beast.

“We have another guest,” The Beast announced cordially, “may I present Katsuki Yuuri, Master Chulanont's brother. He will be with us while Master Chulanont recovers,” The Beast then regarded Yuuri, “Master Katsuki, please, allow me to introduce you to my staff. This is Yakov Feltsman,” here, he gestured to the mantle clock, who gave a curt nod in reply, “my Major-Domo, the Head of my Household, and this . . .” he gestured to the candelabrum, who bowed deeply, “is Christophe Giacometti, my Maître D’. Both are good men and a credit to their names. Should you require anything at all, you have only but to ask either one of them, and they will assist you however they are able,”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Katsuki” the candelabrum, Christophe, greeted; voice oozing with sensual hospitality. The words rolled out in a smooth, round purr.

“Th-thank you,” Yuuri stammered back, “It’s a . . . a pleasure to meet you both as well,”

Yuuri was shocked; beyond shocked to be perfectly honest. When he had first rode into the woods that morning, he had thought he might find Phichit pinned down in a ditch with a broken leg, or wandering around lost in the brush with hypothermia, or kidnapped by bandits, or any number of other unspeakably terrible, yet reassuringly _plausible_ scenarios; he had never _once_ imagined finding himself here, in some sort of Enchanted Castle, in the company of well-mannered Beasts and Talking Trinkets . . . and to be completely honest, he wasn't entirely certain what to do.

But his parents had always taught him to be a gracious house guest, and a castle was just a certain sort of house, he supposed, and he had been treated with nothing but kindness thus far . . . so, if a _candle_ was going to make polite introductions and welcome him in and shake his hand, Yuuri supposed he would just continue to do the same, until _something_ . . . _anything_ started to make some semblance of sense again.   

Christophe opened his mouth to speak once more, but was interrupted by Yakov.

“You are most welcome. Let us know if there is anything you require,” The words were blunt, but not unfriendly; tumbling to the ground like a barrage of tiny pebbles.

“Yes. Thank you. I will. Thank you . . . oh, sorry, I . . . I already said that . . .” Yuuri was rambling, face flushing pink.

Great, his first time in an Enchanted Castle and he was embarrassing himself; typical Yuuri.

“Come now, Yakov, don't be so _brassy_ . . . you’ll scare the poor boy right off!” Christophe teased, winking at Yuuri.

Yakov gave Christophe a scrutinizing once-over, “Yes, I suppose you would be the expert on _brass_ . . . considering that lackluster polish-job”  

Christophe’s mouth dropped dramatically, “Yakov! You _wound me_! I don’t know how I’ll ever recover!” His golden candelabrum-arms crossed over the column of his chest theatrically.

Yakov rolled his eyes at Christophe’s antics; The Beast remained stoic, if somewhat abashed, though Yuuri thought he saw a glimmer of amusement flicker behind those cerulean eyes.

Bizarre as it was, Yuuri decided he rather liked the animated objects, and even thought them quite good-humored; it almost reminded him of the witty repartee he shared with Minako and Phichit.

Phichit!

“Oh . . . speaking of . . . recoveries . . .” Yuuri interjected inelegantly, eyes flickering to the white double-doors beside them.

The Beast nodded, “Ah, of course,” he gestured to the door, “Please,”

Yuuri turned, when another thought struck him.

“Oh! My horse . . . I . . . I’ve left him tied just outside. I should go –”

“Non! Ne sois pas ridicule!” Christophe objected graciously “Please, monsieur, go see to your brother. I’m certain Yakov and I can attend your horse . . .” Christophe descended from the serving table in an elegant glide, landing on the polished tiles below, “. . . that is, if Yakov can tolerate to be near me and my _lackluster_ polish . . .”

He tossed his candle-topped head and began to strut away down the corridor.

Yakov turned to Yuuri with a small, gruff bow, before dropping off the table as well and following Christophe with a world-weary sigh. 

Yuuri wasn't entirely certain how a clock and a candelabrum were going to get a shire horse fed and untacked and settled into an Enchanted Castle, but he had seen stranger things in the last twenty-four hours . . . at this point, he was willing to just go with it.

Beside him, The Beast could not meet his gaze.

“I . . . realize Christophe and Yakov may seem a bit . . . _unconventional_ . . .” The Beast began, “but I assure you . . .”

“They seem . . . delightful,” Yuuri smiled reassuringly.

The Beast relaxed just a fraction in response, before reaching out an enormous paw to rap on the door with the large golden knocker.

“Master Chulanont” The Beast called politely, “there’s someone here to see you . . .”

The large white doors swung inward, revealing the grandest, most gorgeous bedchamber Yuuri had ever seen.

The floor was dark hardwood, inlaid with an intricate, looping border done in a lighter wood; most likely ash. The walls were finished with elegant wainscot paneling; the bottom half modeled in the same white and gold motif as in the halls, while the decorated paper on top sprawled languidly over the walls. The lavish design was simultaneously subtle, yet eye-catching; sky blues and creamy whites cast a magnificent backdrop for golden filigree vines to wind around one another, tracing patterns over every inch of painted paper; their luminous leaves bloomed forth, sprawling out and blossoming all over the room; each golden grouping like a bouquet of ladies’ fans, glittering in the afternoon light.

White, gossamer curtains blew in from a stone balcony opposite the door where they stood; a slightly smaller set of interior doors opened to the right of it.  Further down that same wall was a white marble fireplace; at the moment unlit.  

Large, stately furniture to match the room lined the walls; a striking vanity with golden accents, a plush mahogany chair with blue cushions and a golden throw pillow by the fireplace, a white bookcase with golden vines painted all up the side, a huge wardrobe draped with shimmering silks, and a king-sized canopy bed; dark wood frame, azure curtains, golden tassels.

And there, struggling to sit up in to the plush embrace of those satin sheets –

“Phichit!”

Yuuri raced into the room without another thought.

At the sound of his brother’s voice, Phichit’s head snapped to attention; eyes alight.  

“Yuuri!” Phichit’s expression was soft, full of wonder and relief.

By now Yuuri had clambered up onto the bed; he was kneeling beside Phichit, arms wrapped around his brother’s shoulders, pressing gentle kisses to the top of his head, his cheeks, anywhere he could reach.

Phichit was here.

He was really here.

He was really here and he was really safe and alive and everything was going to be OK after all.

Yuuri’s arms became a vice, and he pressed his head into the crook of Phichit’s neck; a silent promise never to let go again.

“Yuuri . . .” Phichit breathed, clinging back just as tightly.

Yuuri absently hoped that he wasn't hurting Phichit, but another, more selfish and less charitable part of him whispered not to care; not to let go just yet, even though the angle was awkward and his glasses were askew; urging him to hold on just a little while longer. 

Eventually he did relinquish the other boy, realizing with some embarrassment that tears had once again sprung to his eyes; but there were tears in Phichit’s eyes too, so Yuuri elected not to be shy.

Phichit grabbed both of Yuuri’s arms, bewildered, looking at him with wide eyes; like Yuuri were a mirage that might vanish any moment, “But . . . what are you doing here? How did you find me?” delight dripped from every syllable.

Yuuri sniffed, quickly rubbing a traitorous tear off his cheek, “Vicchan . . . he . . . he came home without you . . . and I just . . . followed the trail . . .”

Phichit’s eyes lit up, “Vicchan’s OK?”

Yuuri nodded vigorously, tears once again springing forth, “Vicchan’s OK!”

Phichit wrapped Yuuri in a grateful hug and Yuuri sank into it willingly; the tears of joy continuing.

After a few more deep breaths, they once again released one another to get their bearings.

The soft clearing of a throat drew Yuuri’s attention back to the door.

The Beast.

Yuuri and Phichit looked back to their host in unison.

“Apologies for my interruption,” The Beast said softly, “I’ll leave you to get settled. Just so you are aware, I’ve asked that one of my staff be posted outside the door at all times, should you require anything”.

Yuuri nodded, The Beast’s words flowing over him absently, their meaning barely registering, “Yes . . . yes thank you. _Thank you_ , again . . . so much,” he replied in earnest.

“Not at all,” The Beast returned automatically, “shall I have them call you when dinner is ready?”

Yuuri glanced at Phichit, whose eyes widened in rapture.

“Umm, yes . . . yes please,” Yuuri answered, “We would like that very much,”

The Beast nodded, stoically, “Very well,” he agreed, “until then”. He turned, closing the towering, floor-to-ceiling doors behind him as he went; leaving Yuuri and Phichit alone in the gilded bedchamber.

Yuuri turned back to Phichit, eyes glazed with wonder and disbelief. Phichit returned the look; equally uncertain.

Yuuri couldn't help it; his curiosity was now exploding out of him, “Phichit, _what is going on here_? _WHAT_ are . . . _WHO_ is . . ?”

Phichit just shook his head, now looking entirely strung out, “Believe me Yuuri . . . I wish I knew . . .” he sighed. His eyes darted quickly to the wardrobe across the room at the foot of the bed, “. . . and, you may want to keep your voice down . . . the wardrobe is . . .”

“Alive?” Yuuri finished bluntly.

“ . . . Exactly” Phichit confirmed, “But he sleeps a lot . . . so we’re probably alright,”

Yuuri nodded warily, “Is . . . _everything_ here . . ?”

Phichit hummed pensively, “Hmm . . . not _everything_ , but . . . _most_ things . . .”

Yuuri nodded wearily, then flopped down on the other side of his brother; careful not to jostle him, “. . . and what’s this I hear about you being attacked by _wolves_?” he demanded, eyes brimming with worry.

Phichit’s back stiffened; he opened his mouth to object, and then closed it again. Now was not the time for a fight.

 He shook his head miserably instead, “You were right, Yuuri,” he sighed, “I left too late . . . the sun went down, and I . . . I’m sorry,”

Yuuri’s jaw dropped, “No!” he gasped, “no, no, no, no, not like that! I just . . . I’m just glad you’re safe . . . I was worried sick about you, Phichit! How badly are you hurt?”

Phichit scratched the back of his head, not out of necessity, but nerves, “It’s not so bad anymore . . . just my leg is a little dinged up. Not broken, just a little swollen, hurts a bit to walk on. I’ll be fine . . . I’m just . . .” He swallowed hard, “I feel so stupid . . . getting lost, and putting Vicchan in danger . . . and making you come all the way out here to get me . . . I _really_ made a mess of things this time”

“Don’t say that,” Yuuri reprimanded quietly, “I will _always_ come get you Phichit . . . no matter what,” He embraced his brother once more; a physical reminder that he was there now . . . that he would _always_ be there.

Phichit smiled, a little melancholy tilt of his lips, and rested his head on Yuuri’s shoulder, “Always?”

“Always” Yuuri confirmed.

Phichit relaxed, snuggling in closer to Yuuri and dragging them both down to lie on the massive, downy bed.

“But . . .  you have to admit,” Phichit smirked, “ _this_ is a pretty spectacular blunder . . . you know, with the whole . . . Enchanted-Castle-ruled-by-a-Talking-Beast-and-staffed-by-Living-Objects . . . thing . . . ”  

Yuuri chuckled, “well, when you put it _that_ way, I _guess_ I can see your point,” he teased, “nevertheless, we survived the unstoppable self-digging shovel . . . I’m sure we’ll survive this . . .”

Phichit nodded, head dipping sleepily into the pillows.

“They seem . . . nice . . .” Yuuri murmured after a moment.

“. . . Yea,” Phichit huffed, rolling his eyes, “. . . at least we have that going for us,”

“Yea,” Yuuri agreed, laughing at the absolute absurdity of it, “Phichit Chulanont . . . only _you_ could manage something like this,” he said, in mock sternness.

Phichit laughed, covering his face with his hands “Ugh . . . believe me, I know!”

“So . . . how did you, exactly?” Yuuri asked, curiosity worming its way back to the forefront of his mind, “Manage to find yourself in an Enchanted Castle, I mean?”

Phichit sighed, “ . . . it’s a long story . . .”

 

*****

 

“ _O bozhe_ . . . what do we have here?”

Phichit’s heart fluttered, his head spun; a voice . . . someone was here . . . _finally_ some help.

Lost in the woods, chased by wolves, thrown from his horse, leg wounded, and now this creepy “ _ice magic”_ . . . the _snowballs_ and the massive _gate_ appearing out of nowhere . . .

Phichit painfully turned towards the source of the voice; _finally_ a friendly face . . .

His hopes were immediately dashed.

Towering above him in the snow was a _Beast_ ; thick claret cape gliding about broad hairy shoulders in the icy wind.

Phichit gaped up at the inhuman form above him; massive and monstrous, with long silver fur and sharp shiny claws, lupine jaw with jagged fangs and brutal obsidian horns crowned above frigid cerulean eyes.

Instinct took over and Phichit scrambled back feebly on the cold, shifting snow until his back was pressed helplessly against the frozen gate; clutching his traveling cloak tighter around himself in a vain attempt to keep both the terror and the cold at bay. His leg throbbed painfully, but he could not bring himself to care.

“Please . . . it’s alright. You’re safe now,” The Beast soothed; his voice was deep and low and strangely calming. He slowly offered up a single, sharply-clawed hand and kneeled on the ground, coming no closer, “I know I look vicious . . . but I promise I will not hurt you,”

Phichit felt instantly ashamed; a blush consumed his freezing face. Still, he could not speak, lip quivering with shock and confusion and helplessness.

“Come, let me take you inside,” The Beast offered, speaking slowly and clearly, “I give you my word: no harm will come to you so long as you are my guest,”

“O . . . okay . . .” the word warbled weakly past Phichit’s shaking lips.

He knew it could be a trap; but he was already dead, wasn’t he? What did it matter now?

The Beast nodded, not breaking eye contact, still moving slowly so as not to startle his unwitting ward. He picked himself up off the ground, moving across the icy path seamlessly; leisurely and unhurried, never once slipping. The Beast ghosted along the snowy ground on mammoth paws, perfectly poised on the sheets of sleet, as if he were born to do it.

In fact, he probably had been, Phichit thought bitterly.

The Beast came to rest lightly at his side; crouching on his haunches and scanning him with those icy blue eyes.

“You’re hurt,” The Beast said simply.

“Yea,” Phichit replied numbly, unnerved by the closeness, but forcing himself not to let it show.

The Beast thought a moment.

“Can you breathe alright?” 

“Yes”

“And speak without hindrance?”

Phichit swallowed hard, “Yes”

“Good. Tell me where it is most painful,” The Beast requested.

“My leg. I was bitten,” Phichit ground out. A glance downward revealed that he was not bleeding out, but the gashes were nasty, his leg was swelling badly. “My back . . . my head. My horse threw me. I . . . landed on something sharp,” he cast his eyes downward.

“We should get you inside. Quickly,” The Beast replied briskly, “may I carry you? It will be faster”.

Phichit agreed with a nod of his head. 

“I will be as vigilant as I can,” The Beast vowed, shifting his enormous hands into position, “but moving about with injuries like these . . . it may hurt. Tell me if anything is too painful,”

Then, with more tenderness than Phichit had imagined possible, The Beast carefully slid his gigantic, padded hands beneath Phichit’s knees, and around his back, then gently eased him, bit by bit, into his massive silver arms.

The Beast rose slowly, cradling Phichit in a bridal carry securely above the snowy forest floor; Phichit sucked in a sharp breath as his muscles settled into the new position, unconsciously turning his face into the crook of a pewter shoulder and gripping the seams of a claret cape.

The smooth, silky glide of The Beast across the frozen earth was like nothing Phichit had ever experienced; incomparable to the rumble of a wagon or the gallop of a steed or even the impossibly precise steps of his brother as he danced.

Phichit felt a pang of Sadness.

Yuuri.

Would he ever see his brother again?

A Cathedral of Ice and Snow spiked in the distance; growing bigger as they drew closer, looming over them and eventually swallowing them whole, as The Beast passed through its dark and heavy doors.

A cacophony of voices rang out around him; he closed his eyes tighter against the dissonant assault as his head spun and his leg throbbed.

“A . . . a boy! A human boy!” Deep and gravely.

“C'est magnifique!” Bright and tenor.

“And so handsome!” Light and fluttering.  

“How did he get here?” Youthful and harsh.  

“I don't believe it!” Feminine and bubbly.

“Is it true?” Soprano and round.

 “This way! Over here!” Slow and rumbling.

“Grrrrr! Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf!” A dog.

“He’s hurt” Stoic and flat.

Silence.

Then directions began to fall softly from The Beast.

“Bandages, hot water, and some tea if you please . . . tidy the Eastern Suite and prepare it for our guest . . . Yakov, Christophe, with us please. Come, Makka,”

A litany of quiet “Yes, Masters” followed. Then more silence.   

The Beast let out a soft whistle to the dog.

A soft clicking followed and Phichit was gently jostled to the next room; eyes still screwed shut.

“The _poor thing_ ” the bright tenor voice from earlier cooed, “what happened?”

“Wolves” The Beast replied briskly. Phichit felt himself lowered into a plush chair, and opened his eyes as he adjusted.

The scene which greeted him was not one which he had expected.

“Makka, here girl,” The Beast called quietly, and upon his word a footstool bounded over on dark mahogany legs, jumping up on The Beast just like a normal dog would have.

Phichit’s eyes went wide; he must have lost more blood than he thought.

“Good girl, Makkachin!” The Beast praised, “I need you to behave and help our friend a minute, alright, smart girl?”

The footstool let out a happy yip and went back onto all fours.

“Good girl . . .” The Beast praised, “Makka . . . stay”

And suddenly, the footstool went rigid, stiff as a board . . . like a regular, normal footstool.

Phichit watched, dumbfounded, as The Beast gently slid his injured leg up onto the once-animated footstool. Dog-stool?

“What . . .?” Phichit’s question came out weak.

“Best to elevate the injured limb,” The Beast explained softly, as he sat in the second plush chair next to Phichit’s.

Phichit just nodded. That wasn't _exactly_ what he was asking, but . . .

“Don't you worry, monsieur, we’ll have you fixed up in no-time!” the bright tenor voice interjected once more.

Phichit turned towards the source and came face to face with a living candelabrum.

“You . . . you’re a candle!” He cried in surprise

The candelabrum just chuckled good-naturedly, “Candel _abrum_ . . . but, oui,” he conceded, “and you are a human . . .  and he is a clock,”  

Phichit followed the line of where the candelabrum’s arm was pointing, eyes landing on a stout mantle clock, who gave him a curt nod.

“Welcome”

Phichit closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the plush chair.

There was no way this was happening.

He was actually back out in the forest right now, dying of hypothermia, and this was all just some sort of mad fever-dream.

It had to be.

Suddenly a rickety tea cart came rumbling in, stacked with hot water and bandages and biscuits and of course, tea.

It rolled to a stop between Phichit and The Beast.

Phichit watched with foggy eyes as a teacup popped up on top of the bandages, looking decidedly unimpressed.

“Grandpa says you should have everything you need . . . bandages, hot water, tea . . . he even sent out biscuits. So . . . if that’s all, I’m going to bed. _Finally_.” He huffed and started to hop down from the tray.

“But . . .” Phichit began dazedly . . . “don't we need . . . teacups? For the tea?”

The teacup let out a growl, “there are _other_ teacups on the tray . . .  ones that _aren’t_ alive. _Obviously_. You’re not drinking out of _me_. _Gross_ ,”

The teacup shuddered and continued to hop down to the ground, storming out of the room.

Phichit looked sleepily from the clock to the candelabrum to The Beast to the footstool.

“I’m sorry . . .” he said miserably, “I don’t know the rules . . . I’ve never been in a . . . I’ve never been here before . . .” his head pounded and his vision swam.

“Pay no attention to Yuri,” The clock advised, “He’s always in a mood. Ugh, Teenagers. ”

“Just relax, have some tea, mon chou” The candelabra coaxed, “nothing to be frightened of, just your ordinary, everyday, run-of-the-mill Enchanted Castle . . .”

“Yakov, hand me a cloth” The Beast instructed quietly.

While The Beast and the clock saw to Phichit’s injured leg, the candelabrum distracted him with sweet tea and sweeter conversation.

“What’s your name, mon poulet?” The Candelabrum asked, pressing a warm cup of tea into Phichit’s chilly hands.

“P-Phichit . . .” he stammered, fingers tingling on the toasty china. “Phichit Chulanont”

“You are most welcome here Monsieur Chulanont” the candelabrum replied earnestly, “I am Christophe Giacometti, and this is Yakov Feltsman . . .”

The candelabrum prattled on, his bright rolling voice as comforting as the hot, sugary tea in Phichit’s hands.

Once Phichit had been mended and tended, The Beast carried him up to the most incredible room he had ever seen, with promises that his every need would be met; assured that Christophe and Yakov would remain just outside the door should he require absolutely anything at all.

Phichit had thanked them for their kindness and fallen gratefully into sleep; thoughts of home and his brother still dancing uneasily at the edges of his mind; not knowing if or when he would ever see either one again.  

 

*****

 

_“ANOTHER ONE?”_

A chorus of scandalized voices rang through the kitchen.

“That’s what I _said_ , isn’t it?” Yuri snapped defensively, stamping down on the long wooden prep table with a ‘clink’, “why don't you people ever believe me?”

“We’re just surprised. We never said we didn't believe you, Yurochka” A large, stately teapot with a deep, rumbling voice answered. He was patterned the same as the angry little teacup, with gold filigree and floral pastel patterns, but he had a few tea stains near his spout, the paint on his handle was faded from wear, and a small superficial crack ran up one of his sides.

Yuri pouted, “Yes, Grandpa” he replied contritely.

“For the record, I didn't believe him!” A perfumed handkerchief teased mischievously, her pleasing alto voice bubbled with delight. She was made of fine linen the colour of pink carnations, trimmed with soft raspberry lace. Her face was beautifully embroidered in the center of the fabric, her features stitched in the same deep shade as the edging. The remainder of the material swept down like a skirt, swaying about ethereally.

“Me either!” A decorated hand fan agreed; joining in on the handkerchief’s game. She was painted with a beautiful scene of two ladies in purple gowns sitting in a sprawling garden. The guards and slats which held her paper were made of the finest hand-carved ebony, embossed with a golden grapevine design. Her voice, an enchanting soprano purr.    

“It’s true,” Otabek confirmed flatly, coming to Yuri’s defense, “I saw him too”

The handkerchief shrugged amiably “OK, I believe it”.

“Me too,” agreed the fan.

“What? You _hags_ believe _Beka_ but not _me_?” Yuri raged, stomping down with another ‘clink’.

“Mila, Sara, Yuri, _ENOUGH_ ” Yakov bellowed imposingly.

Christophe chuckled under his breath; poor Yakov. He was lucky to be a clock, really. It meant he couldn't possibly lose any more hair . . .  

A gentle feather tickled Christophe’s side, making him jump ever so slightly.

“Was ist so lustig, Chris?” a sweet voice whispered next to him.

Christophe turned a wry grin to the feather duster leaning in to him; how Masumi still managed to look so sharp and well put-together, even spouting such fluffy brown feathers, Chris would never know.    

He turned in closer to his paramour, whispering back his clever quip about Yakov and clocks and hair.

Masumi laughed into the crook of Chris’ neck; or, where the crook of Chris’ neck _would_ have been if he were still . . .

“And what are _you two_ giggling about over there?”

Chris rolled his eyes, Masumi straightened up; busted.

“Make your _kissy-faces_ some other time,” Yakov admonished, “this is _important_!”

“Yakov, relax! Another boy in the castle! This is good news!” Chris sighed, before wrapping his arms around Masumi dramatically, “Don't worry my pet,” he cooed to the feather duster, not _quite_ softly enough to escape the attention of the others, “He’s just jealous because _Lilia_ isn’t here . . .”

A soft chorus of “Ooo’s” chimed around them; even Yuri looked impressed . . . and a little afraid.

Yakov’s glare was red-hot; like it could melt steel.

And at the moment, Christophe was 30% wax.

However, instead of erupting, the redwood clock closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. When he spoke, his voice was flat and even, “Alright, Giacometti,” he began, “since you know _everything_ , I’m sure you would be delighted to remind us all of the plan we had for the Chulanont boy . . . what with Viktor and the spell and the breaking thereof,”

Chris wasn’t entirely certain he cared for Yakov’s tone, but he would not be cowed; so he stood tall, releasing Masumi gently, before answering as flippantly as he could, “Of course, Yakov . . . it would be my _pleasure_. We all know the rose has nearly frozen solid . . . only three petals remain untouched, the rest have all lost their colour and turned to ice. So have the stem . . . and the thorns,”

At his words, the energy of the room changed entirely; where before his colleagues had been bright and teasing, they were now worried and reserved, like all the joy had been sucked from world.

“However!” Chris chirped jubilantly, “to our good fortune, a human boy found his way to us through the woods and Master Viktor saved him from a terrible fate . . . so now all the Master has to do is nurse him back to heath, the two will fall in love, and _poof_ , we’ll all be human again before you know it!” Christophe beamed, and the others seemed cheered as well.

Except for Yakov.

“Yes . . . that _was_ the plan” the clock grumbled, “but you’re forgetting something Giacometti,”

Chris waved a dismissive candle, “Look, I know what you’re going to say, Yakov . . . ‘oh, it’ll be so much harder to break the spell now that monsieur Chulanont’s brother is in the way,’ . . . but you need to look at the _possibilities_ , Yakov . . . see, now there are _two_ . . .”

“No,” Yakov interrupted sternly, his tone brokering no argument; “none of you seem to realize what this _actually_ means for us . . . this is a _disaster_ ,” his eyes were stern, searching, daring anyone to question him.

“Then tell us,” Otabek requested, his tone just as challenging.

Yakov took another deep breath, “It means, that it will be _impossible_ to break the spell . . . since Master Chulanont’s brother _has come to take him home_ ,”

The realization struck each of the gathered objects in turn; shattering their hopes one by one.

“Vitya won’t even have a _chance_ to break the spell before that Katsuki boy whisks Master Chulanont away,” Yakov continued, once everyone caught on, “it’s not like they’re both just going to stay here for the _fun_ of it! Any hope we had of becoming human again vanished the _instant_ Katsuki Yuuri walked through those doors,”

He bowed his head, crestfallen; as if his words disappointed even himself.

The kitchen was silent; the devastation palpable.

“Wait, Yakov! That’s it!” Chris beamed brightly, excitement bubbling, flames flickering to life on his head and hands, “ _the fun of it_!”

“What . . . _exactly_ do you mean, schäri?” Masumi asked warily, very much accustomed to his lover’s frequent flights of fancy; those both delightful . . . _and_ disastrous.

“It’s simple! We’ll just convince them to stay!” Chris exclaimed, “This is an _Enchanted Castle_! Surely there must be _something_ here that could hold their interest . . .”

“The library!” Mila suggested

“Or the drawing room!” Sara added

“ . . . The armoury!” Yuri cried

“The ballroom!”

“The music room!”

“The dungeon?”

“The gardens!”

 “The gallery!”

“The money?”

The old teapot shuffled forward through the cacophony and raised his weathered eyes.

“A feast!”

The rest went silent.

Yakov smiled for the first time that night, “Nikolai Plisetsky, you’re a genius!”

Yuri beamed at his grandpa.

“It’s perfect!” Christophe agreed, “Tonight, we’ll set the most amazing banquet for Messieurs Chulanont and Katsuki, and they’ll have no choice but to stay!”

The others cheered in agreement.

“And then . . .” Chris continued, “. . . we can only _hope_ . . . that _one of them_ will break the spell,”

Chris and Yakov grinned at one another; for once united, instead of enemies. Yuri smirked at Otabek, who gave a determined nod in response, as Mila and Sara squealed in delight.

“Alright! Now, everyone out of my kitchen! I have a feast to prepare!” Nikolai called out joyfully; more alive than he had been in years.

“He’s right! Move aside! Let the teapot work!” Chris cried triumphantly.

They began to dissipate; hopping off the prep table to give the Head of the Kitchen space, as he rallied the other kitchenware.

“The rest of you; be on your _best_ behaviour!” Yakov ordered, “No more fighting, no more smooching, no more _unseemliness_ , understood?”

 A smattering of sighs drawled out around the kitchen, “ _Yes, Yakov_ ”.

“Find out everything you can about these boys, what they like, what they hate . . .  anything that could help us!” Yakov continued barking orders as the assembly dispersed.

“Let’s just hope Viktor doesn't screw this up, eh Beka?” Yuri laughed, about to exit the kitchen too.

“Oh no, not you, Yurochka,” Nikolai admonished, stopping the teacup in his tracks, “I need you _here_ to help prepare for the feast!” 

Yuri turned back to face his grandpa, his expression horror-stricken the way only a teenager’s could be.

Nikolai just smiled wickedly down at his grandson, “Tonight . . . you mince!”

 

*****

 

Soft candlelight flickered all around, illuminating the ornate and elegant dining room.

Yuuri’s mouth hung open mutely, both in shock and anticipation; dinner was _not at all_ what he had been expecting. 

Yakov had come to fetch him and Phichit just minutes prior, and now the two stood in the doorway of the large, magnificently appointed banquet hall.

The Beast had already arrived. He looked much the same as usual, though now he had substituted a large, billowing white shirt for the heavy claret cape he usually wore.

He rose in greeting when the boys entered, but was sat at the head of the nearly endless mahogany table, with a single empty chair to either side of him; one on the left, and one on the right.

One for Yuuri, one for Phichit.

And laid out before him on the table, was the most food that Yuuri had ever seen in his life.

It was a feast; a literal feast!

Yuuri had definitely _not_ anticipated all this.

When The Beast had offered dinner, Yuuri had expected at most a simple soup, with buttered bread and a glass of water . . . maybe mead or ale if their host decided to be extra gracious.

But this . . .

THIS

The intricate mahogany dining table stretched lavishly from one end of the dining room to the other, and it was laid to overflowing with all manner of piping hot delicacies.

There were several light starters; small meats and cheeses, crisp, fluffy pastries with a rainbow of rich and sweet sauces in which to dip them, small fruits and nuts and dates and olives with flavoured oils to make them pleasing to the palette; each dish so beautifully plated it seemed a shame to disturb the arrangements and ruin the artistry. 

On top of those were the dozens of steaming vegetable dishes; so numerous that Yuuri couldn’t possibly name them all if he’d tried; carrots and potatoes and sweet greens cut and steamed with herbs, seasoned and grilled, drizzled with reductions, tossed with dressings, minced and candied, smothered with cheese and baked.

Then, as if that were not enough, several main courses of meat had been provided for their pleasure as well; a prime rib roast, a rack of lamb, a cut of fine seasoned chicken, stews and ragus and pates. All served on the finest dishes of porcelain and gold.

Embellished flagons and canteens and carafes stood interspersed among the delicacies, promising honeyed wines and fine meads and sparkling ciders and tart juices and much, much more to slake their thirst.

The warm mix of sweet and savory aromas nearly made Yuuri tremble as he took his seat to the left of The Beast; acutely aware of how positively famished he was.

Phichit sat down across from him; leaning on the table as he went to take the weight off his injured leg. The brazen look he gave Yuuri revealed how equally enraptured he was by the mouth-watering spread.

Yuuri’s fingers twitched eagerly in his lap, unsure whether it was appropriate for him to start serving himself quite yet. His eyes flickered sheepishly to The Beast, who sat poised, almost regally, beside him.

Fortunately, he did not have long to wait; at a gesture from The Beast, Animated Utensils of all kinds began to appear, parading the courses before them, offering the drinks and dishes forward in turn and serving them up to a chorus of shy ‘Yes Please’s and ‘No Thank-You’s from the overwhelmed boys; Yuuri carefully avoiding any beverages which may have hinted at alcohol, not trusting himself to imbibe such things under the circumstances. 

Once their plates and chalices were filled beyond satisfaction, The Beast lifted his own glass in a silent toast, nodding to his guests.

“Please,” he beckoned graciously, inviting them to begin.

Phichit and Yuuri returned the toast, thanking The Beast in earnest, gushing gratefully in anticipation of the meal offered to them, before eagerly tucking in.

The first part of the evening passed largely in amiable silence, interspersed with good humored pleasantries from Yuuri and Phichit; the three caught up in the comfort and camaraderie that only a good meal can provide; lulled into a companionable peace by the tang of the spices and the warmth of the spread.  

The minutes ticked by and the sand ran down; the ornate candles which sat upon the table melted languidly, pudding in mesmerizing patterns; though these, thankfully, were simple objects, and not of the living variety, like Christophe.

As first helpings became seconds and seconds became thirds, the servings slowed and the conversation swelled; The Beast remaining largely placid, preferring to ask Phichit and Yuuri questions rather than offer any of his own anecdotes. They were simple inquiries by and large; how was the food? Were they enjoying the room? Had the staff been bothering them? Simple, safe questions, easily answered.

It was only when Yuuri had thanked The Beast once again for his hospitality, when a more personal question slid forward, catching them off guard.

“Of course, I assure you it’s no trouble. It is my pleasure to be your host” The Beast replied, “However, if I am not being to forward . . . what brought to you these woods in the first place, Master Chulanont? There are not many who venture this far out”

And so, as the dishes cleared themselves to be replaced by their dessert course counterparts, Phichit was forced to bashfully regale The Beast with the tale of how he had gotten himself lost in the woods on his way to The Town by the Sea. Yuuri filled in the particulars; namely, the existence of the near-invisible fork in the road and exactly how many leagues Phichit had gone off track.

The Beast listened to it all with rapt fascination; the first spark of any real feeling Yuuri had yet seen from him.

“An Inventor!” The Beast chirped when the tale was completed; still demure and cool, yet with an edge of excitement Yuuri had never heard in his voice before, “How intriguing! Please, do go on . . . what areas of study do you pursue? What sort of devices have you built?”

Phichit perked up, like a dog who’s heard it’s name called, “You . . . those types of things interest you?” he asked, pleasantly surprised.

“Of course,” The Beast replied, “My personal focus is more theoretical concept than practical application, and I will admit to only having a rudimentary knowledge of most subjects, but . . . I do find it all very fascinating! Unfortunately my own studies have stagnated as of late. I’m afraid the library hasn’t seen any new additions recently . . . I imagine whatever texts I’m familiar with must be woefully out of date,”

Phichit brightened immediately, launching into a soliloquy about the Envelope Box he had meant to show off at the Summer Festival, and subsequently ruined during the wolf attack. Yuuri beamed, supplying little details here and there; how the cogs moved so silently, how it slid together so beautifully, how magnificent it was. They went on like that for some time, describing more of Phichit’s creations; the lantern and Yuuri’s glasses and other things both dazzling and dreadful. Phichit glared daggers at Yuuri when he became bold enough to tease Phichit about that damn self-digging shovel again; but the story had the two brothers in stitches by the end of it, and Yuuri thought The Beast looked quite amused himself.

He couldn’t be certain of course . . . what with the chilly demeanor and the fangs and all; but he was fairly confident The Beast was quite enjoying their company.

Then they were talking all about Phichit’s Workshop and the farm and The Village and home, the hours ticking slowly by as they devoured a thousand sweet desserts, sipping at piping hot tea with honey and lemon.

“And you, Master Katsuki? What is it that you do?”

Yuuri snapped to attention; eyes flicking up from the china cup in his hands.

The Beast was focused solely on him now; Yuuri felt heavy under that piercing arctic gaze.

“Oh . . . uh . . .” Yuuri fumbled for something clever to say.

I feed the chickens and weed the garden?

I read my atlas by the hearth and daydream?

I hide in the cottage all day so I don’t have to go outside and talk to anyone? 

He took a sip of his cooling strawberry tea, and then looked back up with a grin.

“I . . . rebuild the paddock fence when _certain shoveling inventions_ uproot everything on the farm”

Phichit tried to look angry, but he just snorted instead, “He’s not wrong” his brother conceded with a laugh, “I suppose ‘Damage Control’ would be an apt title.”

“Is that all?” The Beast asked genuinely, “Forgive me, but . . . would it not be incorrect for me to suggest there’s more to you than that?”

For some reason, those words made Yuuri blush.

“Oh, well . . . I just meant . . .” Yuuri floundered, “Ah . . . I take care of the farm, mostly. Feed the chickens. Weed the garden. Chop the wood. Chores and errands . . .” He took another sip of his tea with a grimace; in his euphoria he had made the drink far too sweet, “The . . . the usual things . . . nothing all that special” He turned a tight, saccharine smile back to his host.

The Beast hummed in response; either unsatisfied or unconvinced, but willing to let the matter rest.

Phichit, however, was a different story.

“Yuuri, don’t be so modest!” Phichit chimed; he turned to The Beast with a wicked grin, “don’t let my brother fool you,” he warned, “Yuuri may seem like an innocent farm boy, but beneath that coy exterior beats the heart of a true artist”

“P-Phichit!” Yuuri stuttered, almost knocking over his teacup.

“What?” Phichit demanded languidly, “we’ve been talking about _me_ all night . . . now it’s _your_ turn”

The look he shot Yuuri then said everything; Phichit was about to get his revenge for the whole “self-digging shovel” bit.

Oh boy.

Yuuri flushed an even deeper pink; there was nothing to do now but tie himself down, let the waves crash over and wait for the tide to low.

“An Artist, you say?” The Beast asked politely, turning to Phichit. That same measured excitement was back in his voice; now trimmed with something akin to mischief.

Yuuri was certain he was going to burn to cinders right there in the mahogany dining chair.

“Mmm hmm . . .” Phichit purred diabolically, “. . . such a _sweet, poetic soul_ , my brother is . . .”

Yuuri groaned internally. Phichit was going to pay for this . . . assuming Yuuri didn’t die of embarrassment right then and there, of course.

“What medium?” The Beast asked, in the same way he had asked about Phichit’s own areas of interest.

“Oh, he’s familiar with most . . . everything from drawing to theatre” Phichit answered sincerely, “with more than a passing knowledge of composition, theory, and performance . . . he’s very well-rounded. He studies under the tutelage of a courtesan . . .”

Technically not a lie.

“. . . And it’s not just the _Fine Arts_ that draw his eye. Literature, history, geography, astronomy . . . he’s both brilliant and insatiable. I’m surprised I can keep up with him half the time,”

Yuuri could concede the first part as accurate, but Phichit was _really_ laying it on thick.

“. . . he’s read every book we own at least a hundred times . . .”

Again, not untrue, but as they owned less than a dozen books between them, it didn't seem like a feat worth the mention.

“. . . and his _dancing_! It’s like nothing I’ve ever . . . I don't even have words to describe it . . .”

 And now Phichit sounded legitimately awed, and The Beast’s arctic gaze fell upon Yuuri once more.

“ . . . you dance?”

Yuuri averted his eyes nervously; there was something strange in The Beast’s tone. Not bad, exactly but . . . big; big and unnameable.

“On occasion . . . it’s just a silly pastime really . . .” Yuuri mumbled sheepishly.

“Oh please!” Phichit scoffed, “If your dancing is a ‘silly pastime’; then my inventing is a ‘fleeting whim’,” He turned back to The Beast, “You’ll have to forgive my brother, he’s plagued by a terrible case of _humility_.”Phichit shot Yuuri a glare indicating exactly _how ridiculous_ he thought his brother was being.

Yuuri just shrugged; strategically non-committal.

Apparently Phichit was not satisfied with Yuuri’s neutrality.

Phichit flicked his bangs out of his eyes and smiled innocently back at The Beast.

A little _too_ innocently.

“He’s actually the talk of the town, you know . . .” Phichit turned and grinned wickedly at Yuuri. He was now holding the conversation hostage; giving Yuuri one last chance to interject; to surrender his stubbornness and accept Phichit’s praise.

Yuuri’s jaw dropped; Phichit was _unbelievable_!

He was a dead man.

Or Yuuri was.

Or they both were.

Either Phichit would talk and Yuuri would die of embarrassment, or Yuuri would talk and end up humiliating himself to death, or Phichit would talk and Yuuri would somehow survive the ordeal only for Phichit to concoct another, more shamefully elaborate social death for him somewhere down the line, or Yuuri would survive the teasing and revenge himself by pelting Phichit to death with sweet, flaky pastries, or Yuuri would end it all, lose the standoff and laugh himself to death; because _he_ was ridiculous, _Phichit_ was ridiculous, _this whole entire situation_ was ridiculous, and at this point he really had nothing left to lose.

Yuuri didn't look away nervously or bite his lip or stutter out an objection; he just snorted and rolled his eyes.

Phichit’s eyebrows shot up in delight.

There would be no surrender then; so be it!

To the death!

Phichit gleefully took his cue to continue.

“. . . he can't do _anything_ without people taking notice,” Phichit drawled mischievously, dramatic and thick, “There’s nobody else in town quite like him. He has a certain . . . _allure_ , my brother does. I’m sure you’ve noticed. I mean, people can’t help but fall madly in love with him wherever he goes . . . what with his _pretty face_ and his _big brown eyes_ and his _sensitive artistic spirit_ and all. Just between us, he has a line of suitors a mile long back home . . . people think he’s some kind of . . . I don’t know . . . ‘ _Playboy_ ’ . . . with all the men and women who constantly throw themselves at him . . . but really, he’s just a sweet, shy dancer . . . a humble artist trying to make his way in this crazy, mixed up world . . . Oh yes, it’s a charmed life, to be sure . . . but kind of sad all at the same time, don't you think?” Phichit trailed off wistfully.

Yuuri blinked slowly, expression blank; his mind either unable or unwilling to process Phichit’s ravings.

All he knew for certain was that if the whole ‘Inventing Thing’ didn't pan out, Phichit could make a fair go of being an actor; he certainly was _dramatic_ enough.

The Beast didn't seem to know what to say to that, and Yuuri didn't blame him; he didn't know what to say either.

“. . . I think . . .” The Beast began after a moment, “That I was correct in my earlier assessment. There is clearly much more to you than meets the eye, monsieur Katsuki” his tone was measured and even once again; mischief and excitement gone, replaced by something more . . . melancholy?

Strange.

Yuuri let out a small, awkward laugh, “Ah . . . what can I say . . . I suppose I’m just too _mysterious_ and _aloof_ for my own good . . .” he drawled sarcastically.

His joke caught Phichit off guard, who violently guffawed in response, causing him to choke on his tea; sending him into a minutes-long coughing fit.

Yuuri smirked; to the death, indeed.

Thankfully, after that, the conversation turned back towards safer topics once again; and before long the trio were deciding to retire.  

“Thank you again,” Yuuri praised shyly, “everything was . . . incredible,”

The Beast dipped his head ever so slightly, “Of course. Tell me your favourite dishes and I can have the kitchen prepare them for tomorrow night’s dinner, if you like,”

Phichit and Yuuri whipped towards one another simultaneously.

Dinner? Tomorrow night?

Were they staying that long?

 “That . . . that’s kind of you to offer . . .” Phichit began uncertainly, searching Yuuri’s eyes as he spoke, “But we had thought . . . _I_ had thought . . . we . . . there’s no one to watch the farm, so . . . we need to be on our way home tomorrow morning,” he finished quietly.

A candle flickered in the silence that followed.

“. . . Of course,” The Beast replied graciously, “I should not have assumed. Please let me know if there’s anything you require for your journey,”

“Thank you . . . you’re too kind,” Phichit replied somberly.

“Not at all,” The Beast returned evenly, “However . . .”

He paused, seeming uncertain. Yuuri bit his lip nervously.

“I realize you both have responsibilities to attend to back home . . .” The Beast continued finally, “and I would not dream of keeping you longer than you desire . . . but at the same time, I would like to assure you that you are both invited to stay for as long as you wish. Please, feel no need to hurry your departure on our account,”

“Thank you,” Yuuri replied automatically.

“Thank you,” Phichit echoed, “. . . truly . . . it’s . . . it’s just the farm. It really can't be left unattended,”

The Beast nodded graciously, “I understand,” he acquiesced.  

Then The Beast rose, Yuuri and Phichit following his lead, and the three moved to exit the dining room, bidding one another good night.

Phichit slowly made his way out, leaning on the walls for support under The Beast’s careful supervision. Yuuri trailed only slightly behind, when the flickering candles caught his attention.

He turned back abruptly, darting back to the table to blow each one out, before quickly catching up to his brother and The Beast.

 

*****

 

Yuuri and Phichit retired uneasily back in the gilded bedchamber.  

The Beast had helped Phichit up the stairs, and offered Yuuri a suite of his own for the night, but the brothers had refused, insisting there was plenty of space in the Eastern Suite for the both of them; the room was larger than their entire cottage, the bed massive in its own right.

 And it went without saying that both preferred not to be separated in the imposingly large, unfamiliar, and not to mention bewitched, manor.

Phichit reclined on the bed, his right leg elevated on a plush throw pillow, as Yuuri paced by the still unlit fireplace.

“ . . . it doesn't seem right” Yuuri mumbled

“It doesn’t,” Phichit agreed, “But what can we do?”

“Stay” Yuuri suggested bluntly

“You know we can't” Phichit insisted for the thousandth time.

“I told you, Minako is at the farm . . .”

“Which is worse than having no one there at all,” Phichit sighed, “Plus she’s _waiting_ for us to return . . . and if we _don’t_? That’s not fair to _her_ , Yuuri. She deserves to know we’re safe,”

Yuuri grit his teeth. Phichit had a point.

The room was still.  

“ . . . What about the mice?” Phichit pleaded quietly.

Yuuri’s heart felt torn in two.

“Yuuri . . .” Phichit pushed himself up straighter, “I know . . . believe me, I _know_ . . .  it’s _my life_ he saved . . . and _I wish_ things were different, but . . . we have to go home,”

 He was right. Yuuri knew he was right. He still couldn't bring himself to say it.

There was something . . . off. Something Yuuri was missing; something telling him he needed to stay.

Or maybe he just _wanted_ to stay; maybe he just wanted to stay here in the beautiful castle surrounded by good company and exquisite art and fine food and breathtaking magic. Maybe he just didn't want to go back to the farm and the hens and the garden and his poor provincial life and . . . everything _else_ waiting back there for him.  

Maybe he was just being selfish.  

“. . . to be honest, Yuuri . . . I . . . I _want_ to go home . . .”

Phichit sounded so guilty; it made Yuuri feel a million times worse.

“You . . . don't like it here?” Yuuri asked gently, coming closer to lean on the bed, voice pitched low. It wasn’t an accusation, just an honest question.

“I just . . .” Phichit began tentatively, “I miss home. I miss the farm. I miss my workshop. The castle is nice and all, and dinner was great but . . . everything is just so _strange_ . . . I mean . . . you have to admit, it’s actually . . . really _creepy_ here, isn’t it?”

Yuuri’s head tilted questioningly.  

“Don't get me wrong!” Phichit backpedaled immediately, “It’s . . . big and pretty and everyone’s been really good to us but . . . isn’t it all just a bit . . . spooky? It’s so quiet . . .”

Yuuri thought about it for a moment; he didn't find the castle all that eerie. Not anymore, anyway . . . but he did have to admit, he could see how Phichit might find it . . . imposing.

“. . . I’m sure that’s just the magic . . .” Yuuri objected weakly, “I mean . . . _we know_ there’s nothing to be afraid of here . . .”

The argument sounded weak, even to himself.

“I mean . . . The Beast is really . . . he’s been so kind,” Yuuri finished.

“True,” Phichit conceded, “He’s . . . very gracious and well-spoken . . . and I’ll be forever grateful to him for saving my life . . . but . . . don't you find him just a little . . ?”

Phichit couldn't seem to find the right words, and instead gestured to make his point; holding both arms stiffly in front of him like a zombie, his face going blank.

Yuuri raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Phichit flushed; frustrated and shame-faced, “I mean, like at dinner . . . I was obviously joking about whole “playboy” thing but . . . just . . . nothing. He’s so stiff. He doesn't laugh, he doesn't smile . . . he’s polite and courteous and inviting and all but there’s something strange there too. He’s so . . . I don’t know . . . cold . . .”  

Yuuri shrugged, “he doesn't entertain much,” he pouted defensively, “and he was interested in your inventions . . .”

Yuuri had always been the type for whom actions spoke louder than words, and in his opinion, The Beasts’ actions rang out loud and clear.

Phichit sighed, “I know. I like The Beast, I _really do_ ; I think he’s a good man . . . creature . . . supernatural-whatever-he-is. I’m not trying to be mean, Yuuri . . . I’m just . . . telling you how I feel,”

Yuuri softened, “I understand,”

Phichit visibly relaxed, sinking back down onto the bed.

“I know we have to go home, Phichit,” Yuuri admitted, “I just . . . wish there was something we could do to thank them,”

“Maybe there is,” Phichit replied sleepily, eyes drifting shut.

“Like what?” Yuuri practically whispered.

“Mmm . . . dunno. They have any trinkets that need fixing?” Phichit joked, eyes still shut.

Yuuri snorted, “Well, considering all the ‘trinkets’ here are alive . . . I think they may need a healer rather than an inventor in that case . . . or would they need a sorcerer? You know, since it’s magic and all?”

Phichit released a fluttering laugh, covering his eyes with his hands, “fine . . . then why don't you offer to go shovel the snow instead?” he teased.

Yuuri let out a rolling laugh, “Ugh, I hate you” he moaned dramatically.

“No you don't” Phichit wheedled

“Yes, I do” Yuuri insisted playfully, “next time I’m leaving you in the woods”

“Rude,” Phichit quipped, reaching out a lazy hand to pat Yuuri gently on the side of his head, “Well, I’m out of ideas . . . better just go ask, then,”

Yuuri hummed thoughtfully.

Once again, Phichit had a point.

Yuuri rose, promising to return shortly. Phichit hadn’t been serious of course, but once Yuuri got an idea in his head, not much could be done to dissuade him from it; a trait which had proven to be both a blessing and a curse.

Yuuri emerged into the narrow, lamp-lit hall; immediately spying Christophe on the serving table opposite.

The candelabrum was speaking with a feather duster in hushed tones, but immediately jumped to attention when the door opened.

“Master Katsuki!” Christophe all but yelped, “What can I do for you this fine evening, Monsieur?”

“Sorry, I . . . I didn't mean to interrupt,” Yuuri said contritely, looking between the two.

“Not at all!” Christophe waved a dismissive candle as the feather duster bowed graciously, “Masumi and I were just . . . _talking_ . . .” his eyes darted quickly from Yuuri to the feather duster and back again, “How can I be of assistance?”

“I was hoping . . . or wondering . . . if your Master might still be up?” Yuuri asked shyly, “I uh . . . wanted to ask him something . . . if it’s not a bother,”

Christophe’s eyes lit up, “Of course! Absolument! No bother at all! I believe he’s just in his parlour now . . . he can be found there more often than not, always whiling away the hours on some passing fancy or other. Come, monsieur, I shall show you to him,”

Christophe turned to the feather duster, Masumi, “You can tend Master Chulanont in my absence, Müsli?” he asked sweetly.

“Of course,” Masumi replied just as softly. He gave Yuuri another courteous bow.

“Thank you,” Yuuri replied, with a small bow of his own.

“This way, Monsieur!” Christophe chirped, leading Yuuri back through the winding passageways of the dimming castle.

 

*****

 

Ex-Prince Viktor Nikiforov slumped in his favourite plush sitting chair, staring into the flames of the roaring fireplace in his elaborate personal parlour, his wolfish muzzle resting melancholically upon his curled fist, as he leaned on the embroidered armrest; contemplating his situation.

It was a difficult task, not so much for its complexity, but for the sheer fact that it was hard to go about pondering such things without his pesky _feelings_ getting in the way; clouding his judgement and making him careless.

Indeed, ‘careless’ was one thing he absolutely could not afford to be at the moment.

He straightened, rubbing at his eyes, blinking in the heat of the flames.

He gazed distractedly about the parlour; it was his most favourite room in the entire castle. Large but cozy, big enough to entertain but small enough to study in private comfortably; windows that faced the sunset, original portraits of the most inspirational nature, all of the furniture crafted by hand for comfort and beauty. Everything was painted and upholstered in his favourite colours; the room a sweet embrace of magentas and fuchsias and clarets with accents of deep plum and raspberry and rose and gold.

The room was perfect, down to every last detail.

That must be why Viktor still spent so much time in here . . . considering this was where _it_ had happened.

Or perhaps he was just a masochist; as Christophe so often teased him. 

Viktor sighed; alright, to business.

How to get the boys to stay?

Obviously, he couldn't impose upon their free will. That would never do. He might be a _Beast_ , but he certainly wasn't a _Monster_.

The Feast was supposed to have swept them off their feet . . . delight them enough to make them want to remain in the castle . . . that’s what Chris had said.

What else could he offer them? What _else_?

And with so little time?

And when the boys had responsibilities back home?

He needed something fast . . . something wondrous enough to keep them here.

What might they like enough to make them stay?

What might Yuuri like . . ?

Viktor pondered, coming up with many things that might appeal to Katsuki Yuuri  . . . but not quite certain which would be the most well-received.

For Katsuki Yuuri was turning out to be a never ending wealth of surprises.

When they had first met this morning in the sitting room, Yuuri had been afraid; Viktor could tell. He didn't begrudge the farm boy that; Viktor had no allusions about his appearance after all.

But then . . . Yuuri had changed, almost instantaneously.

One word, one simple sentence from Viktor’s hideous muzzle and suddenly . . .

None of it mattered anymore?

This boy, this Katsuki Yuuri cared so much for his brother that he could look a Beast in the eye with no fear? Could speak to Viktor like the human he truly was beneath the fur and fangs? Had the courtesy to make polite conversation, ask after Viktor’s own welfare, apologize for his intrusion . . . and even have the presence of mind to insist that he found the enchanted staff ‘delightful’? _Delightful_?

Katsuki Yuuri . . . would wonders never cease?

And not only was Yuuri gracious . . . he was kind and humble and funny and interesting and obviously intelligent . . .

. . . and pretty; _Very_ pretty, if Viktor were being entirely honest. Phichit hadn't been exaggerating about that. Viktor had no doubt that Yuuri would be highly sought after back home.

. . . and he was an _artist_.

. . . and he was a _dancer_.

. . . and he was _leaving tomorrow morning_ unless Viktor could stop him.

Maybe if he just fell to his knees and begged the beautiful dancer to stay, Yuuri would surprise him once again and take pity on the poor cursed prince.

Viktor let out a frustrated growl; his _feeling_ s were getting the better of him again.

 _Distracting_ him.

He ran a frustrated paw through his hair; claws snagging on the tangles.

Maybe he should find a way to make Phichit want to stay instead? If Phichit wanted to stay, surely Yuuri would too? For his brother’s sake? Or was this getting too complicated now?

A knock at the door roused his attention.

“Enter” He called automatically.

Chris poked his head around the door smugly, “Monsieur Katsuki is here . . . _he wishes to speak with you, Master_ . . .” The candelabrum winked; his tone unmistakable.

Viktor’s heart stopped; mercy, this boy would be the death of him.

“Of course,” he replied evenly, despite the sudden heart attack, “show him in,”

“Yes, _Master_ ” Chris returned lasciviously, disappearing from view.

Ugh, ‘ _Master_ ’ . . . every time Christophe said it Viktor cringed; to the candelabrum’s unending delight.

Viktor counted Christophe as one of his closest friends; and so, Chris addressing him the way that he did . . . like _that_ . . . it had started as a joke, but over time it had taken on a life of its own, embarrassing Viktor to no end and never failing to amuse the Maître D’.

Viktor was just thankful that Masumi wasn't the jealous type.

He rose from his chair to greet Yuuri, as Christophe beckoned the boy in; closing the door behind him to give the two some privacy.

“Monsieur Katsuki,” Viktor addressed him with a stoic nod, as if he had not been daydreaming about the boy only two minutes prior, “What can I do for you?”

Yuuri glanced away shyly, and Viktor thought his heart might stop once again.

Maybe if Yuuri just went ahead and killed him with those big beautiful brown eyes Viktor wouldn't have to worry about breaking the damn spell at all.

“I . . . I’m sorry to bother you,” The boy began, looking back to Viktor now, “I just . . . since we’re leaving tomorrow, I wanted to thank you again . . . for your hospitality,”

Viktor paused . . . something familiar buzzing in the back of his brain.

“Not at all,” He answered at last, “It is my pleasure to host you and your brother, I assure you,”

Yuuri nodded, then took a small step towards him. “Even so,” he pressed, “we’re very grateful for all you’ve done. We . . . we were actually wondering if there was anything we could do? To . . . um . . . to reward you, for your kindness?”

The buzzing became thunderous as warning bells blared.

Viktor went rigid; swallowing hard.

Isn’t that what _she_ had said? “Reward you for your kindness . . .”?

 _And then she had_ . . .

Was this some sort of _trap_?

Another trick of _her_ s now that time was so short?

No . . . this _wasn't_ . . . it _couldn’t_ be . . .

But Yuuri _did_ seem too good to be true . . .

And their arrival had been _awfully_ convenient . . .

Yuuri looked at him searchingly, biting his lip. Viktor hadn't even realized he had not answered, when Yuuri spoke again, “I know we don't have much . . . Phichit and I . . . but . . . but you’ve done so much for us, and . . . and if there’s any way that we can repay you . . .”

Viktor took a step back.

No. Impossible.

Not again.

The same room. The same words.

This time he would not be fooled.

Yuuri took another tentative step forward, “. . . is there?” he asked quietly, “anything we can do? Anything we can give? Even just a token of our gratitude?”

“ _I want nothing from you_ ”

The words came out fast and harsh; abrasive. Much colder than Viktor had intended.

And then Yuuri took a step back, alarm flickering quickly over his lovely features.

Shock.

Hurt.

 “Sorry . . . I . . . didn’t mean to offend you . . .” Yuuri apologized numbly, “I’ll leave you be then . . .”

It . . . wasn't a trap, then; just a horrible coincidence.

Viktor was consumed instantly with regret. Why was he always such a fool?

An aching chill filled his chest.

No . . .

“The apology is mine” he bit out quickly.

Yuuri was turning back towards him now; slowly . . . cautiously.

It was no use . . . Viktor knew it was too late.

Yuuri’s once warm eyes were now guarded; his shoulders tense, his posture stiff.

In a single breath, Viktor had ruined everything.

“I only meant . . . you have no reason to fret . . .” he scrambled, “I . . . I did not shelter you both in return for a reward. You . . . you don't owe me anything. It was no trouble . . . I did nothing. _Really_ ,” his words were gentle, but insistent, praying Yuuri would forgive his earlier outburst.

Instead, Yuuri’s eyes narrowed.

“Nothing? You _saved my brother’s life_ . . . you tended his wounds, gave us a place to stay, served up a feast . . . is that _nothing_ to you?” he pressed softly.

Viktor was breathless, how had the conversation spiraled so far out of control?

“. . . The enchantments on the castle saved your brother . . . the staff prepared the room and the feast . . . _I_ . . . did nothing,” he explained flatly.

Yuuri nodded, taking a deep breath, “Well . . . thank you all the same,” he replied softly; barely a whisper.

Viktor nodded once, looking away.

How was it that this one simple boy could shake Viktor to his very core? Make such an impression though they barely knew one another? 

“Shall I see you off tomorrow?” Viktor offered, changing the subject. There was no point in pretending like there was even a chance Yuuri would stay now; best just to be gracious about it.

Yuuri nodded, smiling a little, “Please? If . . . if that wouldn't be too much trouble,” he answered sweetly, “I’m sure Phichit would like to . . . say goodbye”.

“Then I will see you tomorrow morning, Master Katsuki” Viktor promised.

Yuuri hesitated, “goodnight then,” he relented at last, turning to exit the parlor.

Viktor rounded back to face the fireplace, the threads of his composure wearing thin.

 He waited to hear the creak and slam of the door. Instead he heard a soft voice.

“Please . . . it’s just . . .”

Viktor couldn't face Yuuri now; he would be done for.

Yuuri continued on anyway.

“. . . It’s just . . . Phichit . . . he’s the only family I have left. He’s my whole world. If anything had happened to him . . .” Yuuri’s voice wavered only a moment, “I don’t . . . I don’t know what I would have done. And . . . I know I can never _really_ repay you. I just . . . I need you to know how much Phichit means to me. How much _everything you’ve done_ means to me. You keep saying it was ‘ _nothing_ ’ . . . but to me . . . it was _everything_. So . . . ah . . . thank you. Just . . . thank you . . .”

Viktor stared into the leaping flames, willing himself to remain strong in the face of another Katsuki Yuuri surprise.

“You’re welcome” he replied evenly, still to weak to look back at the beautiful boy in his doorway.

Then, at long last, he heard the signature creak and slam of the parlor door, and sank down, warm and exhausted, into his favourite armchair once more.

If this is how it felt to be in Katsuki Yuuri’s presence, then Viktor dreaded living in his absence.

 

*****

 

Yuuri stumbled back out into the hallway on shaky legs; only to be greeted once again by Christophe’s smiling face.

“So . . . how did it go?” the candelabrum purred teasingly.

Yuuri’s mind was still reeling a little and he looked dazedly down at the Maître D’, who had already begun to lead him back to his suite.

A shaky, “umm . . .” was all Yuuri could manage at the moment.

Christophe looked back at Yuuri, his eyes widening in concern, “Oh . . . that doesn't look like a happy face . . .” he prompted.

“I . . . think I may have offended him . . .” Yuuri offered uncertainly.

Was it strange to have a heart to heart with your host’s employee?

Would it be more or less acceptable, when you were all but stranded in an Enchanted Castle, with a Beast for a host . . . and the employee in question happened to be a candelabrum?

Yuuri didn't rightly know, but anyone who could shed some light on his situation was a welcome ear, at this point.

That whole conversation had just been . . . bizarre.

Not that the castle, or anyone in it for that matter, had reeked of normalcy to begin with.

“Offended him?” Christophe inquired gently.

The halls were now very dark; outside the sun had set and no more light came in through the windows. Only the glow of the sconces lit their way; and Christophe’s ethereal flames, of course.

“I just wanted to thank him . . . I asked if I could do anything . . . you know . . . to repay him for his kindness . . .” Yuuri mumbled.

“Ahh . . .” Christophe drawled, tone awash in understanding, “I . . . I apologize on my Master’s behalf Monsieur Katsuki,” he replied earnestly, “The Master . . . he . . . well . . . we don't entertain much . . . it does not surprise me that he would be wary of strangers offering gifts,”

“. . . _but why_?” Yuuri blurted gracelessly. He felt a bit abashed, but he was so, so _curious_.

Christophe sighed, and then looked about conspiratorially, dousing his flames; he motioned for Yuuri to pick him up.

Yuuri did, tentatively, and Christophe gestured for them to keep going; still directing their way down the hall with demure points of his candle.

Once they were settled, Christophe finally spoke.

“. . . because of the spell,” he revealed, pitching his voice low; leaning to whisper in Yuuri’s ear.

“The what?” Yuuri gasped, nearly dropping his charge.

“Sorry,” he apologized quickly, resettling Christophe in a firmer grip.

“The _spell_ ,” Christophe repeated, voice still pitched down, “really now, Monsieur Katsuki, how did you think we all came to be this way?”

A spell.

So THAT was the big secret.

That’s why everything felt so wrong, so strange, so eerie.

That’s where the magic came from.

That’s why everyone was acting so . . .

That’s why the Beast never had company . . .

Now it all made sense.

“I . . .” Yuuri faltered, a bit embarrassed, “To be honest . . . I thought . . . I thought it was like a fairy story . . . ogres and giants and pixies . . . I thought you all just . . . always were as you are,” he was glad the darkness hid his blush.

“Ahh . . .” Christophe drawled in comprehension, “Unfortunately, it is not so, mon chou,” he explained, voice hushed and even, “The others . . . they would not approve of me telling you these things . . . they would not want to worry you. _The Master, especially_. . . I could get into very big trouble for this . . . but . . .”

Christophe cast him a pained, conflicted look.

“Please,” Yuuri begged, “I have to know”

“. . . alright . . .” Christophe agreed resignedly, “ . . . we were human once . . . just like you. Myself, Yakov . . . all of us; even the Master. Then . . . one day . . . an Enchantress came to the castle in disguise, and offered the Master a simple gift, in return for his hospitality. To repay him for his kindness. Only . . . the gift was cursed. It was a trick. She cast a spell on him, buried the castle in snow, transformed the staff into trinkets and baubles and . . . turned the Master into . . .”

“. . . a Beast” Yuuri finished, sympathetically.

His heart was starting to race; He had never heard anything to terrible.

“Oui monsieur,” Christophe confirmed sadly, “and not just that . . . she erased all memory of us from the outside world . . . everyone beyond these walls has completely forgotten that we exist,”

“What?” Yuuri cried, “That’s . . . that’s awful! Why . . . why would she do such a thing?” he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“Shhh . . .” Chris reprimanded gently, and Yuuri clamped his free hand over his mouth contritely; the shadows shifting around them eerily.

Christophe looked up at him with a small, melancholy smile, “Believe me, Master Katsuki, we have been asking ourselves the same thing for a _very_ long time now . . .” he answered at last.

“Yuuri,” Yuuri offered gently, removing his hand and he spoke.

“Yuuri,” Christophe repeated kindly, “and you may call me Chris, should it please you”

Yuuri nodded, continuing down the corridors in silence. They were almost back at his room now.

“There must be some way to break the spell” Yuuri insisted at length, his voice a whisper; the cogs and gears in his head whirring frantically as he tried to piece everything together.

“Of course there is” Christophe confirmed bluntly.

“Then I’ll help you!” Yuuri declared, still hushed, “Please, there must be _something_ –”

Christophe smiled up at him once again, “ah, you are sweet to offer, mon chou, but unfortunately that’s up to the Master,”

“What . . . what do you mean?”  Yuuri asked suspiciously.

They had reached his suite now.

Yuuri placed Christophe down gently on the serving table; Masumi was nowhere in sight, probably checking in on Phichit or running a quick errand for him.

“What I mean is . . . it isn’t simply a matter of saying some magic words . . . or brewing a potion or solving a riddle or retrieving a treasure to break the spell . . .” Chris looked up at Yuuri with deep, desperate eyes.    

“Then how?” Yuuri pressed, “How do we break it?”

“ _We_ don't” Chris insisted, “ _He_ does”

“The Master?” Yuuri clarified, “how?”

That gave Chris pause, “. . . _That_ . . . is something he must discover for himself” he explained, forlornly.

Yuuri sighed, straightening up and running a hand through his hair in frustration; marshaling his thoughts.

He leaned back down to face Chris, “And if he figures it out? If he finds a way to break the spell?”

Chris brightened, “then we all become human again. The castle thaws . . . the world will remember us once more. We go back to the way things were before. But if not . . .”

Yuuri’s brows knit together in concern, “If not?”

“The Master is . . .” Christophe paused, choosing his words carefully, “. . . how should I put this . . . working on borrowed time? He only has so long to break the spell . . . before it becomes permanent,”

Yuuri gasped, “Permanent?”

Christophe nodded, “Oui. Permanent. Once our time runs out, the other staff and I will lose what little humanity we have left, transforming completely into the objects we appear as now. I, for example, will become nothing more than an ordinary, though exquisitely beautiful, candelabrum. No more talking, no more moving, no more seeing, thinking, feeling. Nothing. We’ll be no more than scrap metal. Rubbish. Trash . . . The castle will fall to ruin . . . and the Master . . .”

“The Master?” Yuuri prompted, voice quivering, devastated by the tragic fates of his newfound friends. 

“The Master will remain a Beast for all time. Forgotten and alone,”

“No,” Yuuri bit out, “I can't . . . I _won’t_ let that happen,”

Christophe smirked, “I applaud your passion, ma petite étincelle, but as I said before . . . it’s in the Master’s hands now”

Yuuri sighed, the wind knocked out of him with a single sentence.

He shook his head miserably, “It’s just . . . you’ve all been so kind . . . there’s . . . there’s really _nothing_ I can do? _Nothing at all_?”

Christophe hummed sympathetically, “I’m afraid not, Yuuri,” he cooed, “but . . . please know . . . it has been an absolute joy for the Master, having you and your brother here. I must admit, it’s been a very long time since we’ve had guests . . . and though he may not exactly _show_ it . . . I’m certain your company has been a great comfort to him in these troubled times,”

Yuuri blinked back a few tingling tears; wiping quickly at his eyes.

“Ah . . . I’m sorry, pet. I didn't mean to distress you,” Christophe apologized sincerely.

“No . . . no. It’s  fine. I’m fine,” Yuuri assured him quickly, “I just . . . I’ll miss you,” he gave the candelabra a weak, watery smile.

“And I you, Yuuri. I you,” Christophe smiled back, “Now . . . to bed, oui? You have a long way to go tomorrow, if rumor is to be believed”

Yuuri nodded. “Thank you, Chris,” he whispered, before retreating to the gilded bedchamber once more.

The doors closed with a soft thud, and a ‘click’; Christophe stared fondly after the kind, brave boy behind them.

The window curtain at the end of the hall rustled ever so slightly, and within moments, Masumi was on the serving table by his side.

 “Hmm . . . I certainly hope you know what you’re doing, mein herzli,” the feather duster cautioned gently.

 “You sound worried, müsli” Chris pouted teasingly, “. . . I think that went rather well, if I do say so myself. I didn't tell him anything that wasn't true . . . and I didn't put any _naughty_ ideas in his head” he turned, pressing the cold metal of his once-lips to the side of Masumi’s wooden handle.

It wasn't the same.

“Besides,” Christophe continued softly, “he’s a sweet boy . . . just the type of person Viktor needs. Yuuri will be good for him.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Masumi agreed flatly, “but _he’s_ not the one I’m worried about . . .”

Christophe sighed; his paramour had a point.

“Well then . . . isn’t it lucky that Viktor has _us_ to set such a good example for him, my love,” He wheedled, pulling Masumi close and tenderly wrapping his arms around the feather duster.

Masumi snorted playfully, “Christophe Giacometti,” he chastised, “your plating may be gold . . . but that tongue of yours is all silver,”

“Mmm,” Chris hummed into Masumi’s shaggy hair, “you’re absolutely right, schnüggerli . . . and once we’re human again, I’ll _happily_ remind you just what _else_ this tongue of mine can do . . .”

 

*****

 

The next morning came far too quickly.

Yuuri had fallen asleep with a heavy heart; now knowing the truth of the castle, that there was nothing he could do to help his new friends, and that even had there been, he would still have to leave come sunrise.

He had told Phichit everything of course; his brother’s logical mind turning instantly to possible solutions, but to no avail.

No matter how they tried, it always came back to The Beast and the boys and how they had no choice but to return home.

Yuuri hated it.

They stood in the frosty entrance way now, with The Beast and Christophe and Yakov to see them off; Vicchan had been miraculously tacked and saddled and was waiting just outside on the snowy promenade for them.

They bade their new companions a fond farewell, before the huge, dark doors swung open, drenching the entryway in bright white light and icy, biting wind.

Yuuri and Phichit shuffled reluctantly out into the bracing cold, the latter leaning on his brother for support.

They only made it as far as the stairs before The Beast came to offer his assistance; getting Phichit safely down the slick steps and gently onto the waiting steed without so much as a single hitch.

Yuuri stumbled down after them, taking the reins to lead Vicchan on foot.

The wind whipped wildly around them, pulling at the boys’ traveling cloaks and The Beast’s claret cape violently.

“You are all set then?” The Beast asked quietly, his voice almost imperceptible above the roar of the gale.  

The boys both just nodded silently.

Yuuri’s insides twisted over on themselves.

This was wrong; just so _wrong_.

But what else could he do?

The Beast gave a curt nod, “I wish you both a safe journey,” he said solemnly, taking a sure-footed step back on the sleet.

“Thank You,” Yuuri murmured, his voice lost to the wailing of the wind.

The Beast turned back to the castle, stopping himself short.

“If . . . if either of you should find yourselves this way again . . . you are always more than welcome in my castle,”

And with that, The Beast swept quickly away, back up the slick, icy steps and into the waiting arms of the cursed manor.

The heavy, dark doors slammed shut; a booming crescendo echoing in their wake.

Yuuri and Phichit cast each other a rueful look, before Yuuri gave a quick tug to Vicchan’s lead; making their way back across the blinding arctic courtyard.

 

*****

 

The heavy, dark doors slammed shut; a booming crescendo echoing in their wake.

Viktor straightened his posture and closed his eyes against the impending onslaught.

But none came.

He opened his eyes slowly, casting them down to Christophe and Yakov at his feet.

They just stared past him; as if the doors were glass rather than walnut, as if they could both still see the boy’s retreating figures.

At last, they looked to him, but where he had expected anger, he saw only disappointment; and somehow that was worse.

“What do you want me to do?” He challenged bitterly.

“Go after them?” Christophe scoffed petulantly.

“And do _what_?” Viktor demanded.

“Anything you have to!” Yakov ordered.

Viktor growled. What had his life come to, when his staff were now ordering _him_ around? But he supposed he had lost all right to rule when he had gone and ruined their lives.

“I told you, it’s too late . . . last night –” Viktor began contritely.

 “To _hell_ with last night, Vitya!” Yakov erupted, “That’s a _damn excuse_ and a _lousy one_ at that!”

“I think you’re _scared_ ,” Christophe pouted.

“Stop,” Viktor quietly begged.

They were right. He knew it. What they were saying . . .  it was all true.

He was a failure; he had been a fool and damned them all, and didn't even have the courage to make it right again.

Maybe he deserved to be a Beast.

Maybe he deserved to be alone.

The silence that followed was tense; fragile like a Faberge Egg. One wrong word would send everything crashing down.

Christophe closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and collecting himself before he said something he would regret.

“Viktor . . .” he began gently, “we’ve been over this _a thousand times_. What happened that day . . . with the Enchantress . . . _it wasn't your fault_. It was a cruel, sadistic, trick . . . it could have happened to _anyone_. Nobody _blames_ you . . . but you’re the only one who can fix this. It’s not _right_ and it’s not _fair_ , and I know . . . it’s _a lot_ to ask of you. Perhaps _too much_ to ask of you . . .” he trailed off helplessly, looking to Yakov for some type of assistance; but as usual, the clock wasn't feeling particularly loquacious.

“But . . . but that’s just the way it is? So . . .” Christophe finished weakly.

Viktor just stood there; blank and brooding.

Christophe knew that face well; knew that nothing he said could possibly get through to Viktor now.

“I’m sorry . . .” The Beast whispered, “There’s nothing I can do”

And with that, he swept past them with a swish of his beloved wine coloured cape; dashing their hopes and damning his own.

Christophe and Yakov looked to one another miserably.

“Well,” Christophe sighed, “I just hope the _castle_ has some ideas now . . . because for once . . . I’m all out,”

The two grudgingly dragged themselves away from the vast double doors to go break the news to the others.  

 

*****

 

Yuuri and Phichit were silent, lost in thought as Vicchan plodded along through the deep snow.

_‘Swish-thud’, ‘swish-thud’, ‘swish-thud’._

_“Don't go, don't go, don't go,”_ Yuuri’s thoughts chimed along with the steed’s ambling steps.

The wind had settled; now everything was just bitingly cold. Yuuri could feel his lips numbing. He scrunched his fingers together so he wouldn't lose feeling in them.

But he wasn’t worried; soon the woods would turn to summer again, they would be safe and warm at home and everything would go back to normal.

Though Yuuri wasn't sure how he was supposed to just ‘go back to normal’ . . . how he was supposed to forget his friends and the castle and The Beast, suffering in silence; alone and forgotten a mere four leagues away.

Soon, the massive Ice Gate loomed into view; swinging open of its own accord as they approached.

Magic.

_‘Swish-thud’, ‘swish-thud’, ‘swish-thud’._

“. . . Yuuri?”

Phichit’s voice was distant; Yuuri looked up.

He had stopped walking; hadn't even realized it. He had stopped short just before the gate, the reins slipping out of his hands, feet planted firmly in the inches-deep snow. Vicchan and Phichit had kept going.

Phichit grappled for the reins, swinging Vicchan back around, coming to rest at Yuuri’s side. He looked down at his brother, eyes filled with sympathy.

Yuuri looked back up at him, forlorn.

“I . . . can't” was all he could manage.

Phichit nodded, biting his lip in thought. He let out a deep sigh.

Phichit was frustrated; Yuuri could tell.

He didn't blame him; Yuuri would be frustrated with himself too.

He was being foolish. He needed to get Phichit home. There was nothing he could do for The Beast and the others, and Phichit needed him more.   

Then, after a moment, Phichit spoke.

“. . . maybe you don't have to,”

Yuuri gaped up at his brother, “What? But . . . the farm . . .”

Phichit shrugged, “I go. You stay,”

Yuuri flinched; the words came so easily . . . so factually . . .

Could it really be that simple?

“But . . . I can’t! I can't leave you Phichit! You’re . . . hurt!” Yuuri protested.

“I’ll be fine!” Phichit objected with a smirk; Yuuri knew it was forced. He gave his brother a scrutinizing glare.

“Look,” Phichit conceded sincerely, “I have Vicchan, it’s bright and early . . . and _I know where I’m going_ this time . . . I’ll even mark the fork on the map when I find it. I’ll go home and tell Minako what happened. Tell her you’re safe . . . I’ll watch the farm. I’ll take care of things, Yuuri,”

“But . . . who will take care of _you_?” Yuuri asked with a weak, watery laugh. He wiped his eyes. It was far too cold to cry now.

“Pfft,” Phichit scoffed, “I’ve survived this long . . . and I _am_ a ‘brilliant inventor’ after all . . . I’m sure I’ll figure it out,” he promised. His tone was light and teasing, but there was something mournful just beneath the surface he was trying to hide.

“Besides . . .” Phichit continued, “it’s . . . it’s not like this is forever, yea? Just . . . until we break the spell,”

Yuuri’s heart pounded hard against his ribs; Phichit _always_ came through.

“You sound like you have a plan,” Yuuri quipped.

Phichit screwed up his face, and he shrugged, lifting his palms in supplication, “Ehhhh . . . it’s more of an ‘idea’ . . . and not a very _good_ one to be honest . . .” he confessed.

“Tell me!” Yuuri brightened.

“Well . . . _we_ may not be able to break the spell . . . but we may be able to help The Beast do whatever it is _he_ needs to do to break the spell . . . and thus, repay our debt to him. So . . . you stay here, and learn everything you can, get the _inside perspective_ . . . and I’ll . . . I don't know . . . see if I can find anything on the outside,” he explained.

“Like what?” Yuuri asked, genuinely curious.

“You said that this . . . _enchantress_ . . . erased all memory of the castle from the outside world? Well . . . does that include maps? Birth records? Family trees? I don’t know much about . . . _magic_ . . . but hopefully the enchantress got sloppy somewhere. If I can figure out what _castle_ this is, maybe I can find out who _The Beast_ actually is . . . and then maybe, _just maybe_ , I can find a loophole or a formality or an escape clause that will . . . I don’t know . . . invalidate the spell? I mean . . . in fairy stories, isn’t there always some sort of . . . technical quibble that saves the day?”

“Phichit . . . that’s brilliant!” Yuuri cried.

Phichit hummed uncertainly, “Don't get _too_ excited Yuuri,” he cautioned, “It’s just an idea. I don’t know if it’ll work. Maybe this enchantress was really thorough . . . and who knows how long the castle has been under this spell? Ten years?  Fifty? A hundred? There’s a _very good chance_ that I _won’t_ find _anything at all_ . . .”

Yuuri nodded rapidly, mind swimming with possibilities.

“Ask Minako too,” he suggested, “She might know where to find royal records . . . or she may have heard strange rumors back when she lived at court. I mean, the spell would have made her forget the castle, obviously . . . but you never know what she might have heard,”

Phichit smiled, “I will,” he agreed.

Yuuri smiled back.

They gazed at one another for a moment more; and though they now had a plan and a purpose, neither wanted to part.

The brothers had never been separated for longer than a few of days at a time before; usually for the Summer Festival. Yuuri hesitated, suddenly uncertain in the face of a future without Phichit.

He thought this was what he had wanted. It _was_ what he wanted.

And yet that didn't make it any easier to say goodbye.

He couldn't hug Phichit, so he reached up a chilly hand; Phichit clasped it with one of his own.

“Ki o tsuke te ne” Yuuri bade with a small, soft smile, “Minako ni yoroshiku ne”

“I will,” Phichit promised with a melancholy grin of his own.

Yuuri sniffed, steeling his resolve; this wasn't forever . . . it was only for now.

He slowly released Phichit’s hand and took a small step back on the gleaming snow.

Phichit took one last deep breath, lips quirking up into a smirk, “C̄hạn s̄ạỵỵā ẁā c̄hạn ca dị̂ phb khuṇ xīk nı rĕw «nī̂,” he pledged, before guiding Vicchan back around, and quitting the enchanted winter woods.

Yuuri watched as his brother rounded the bend; disappearing into the snowy trees.

He stood frozen only a moment more, before making his way back to the castle.

This time, he approached with confidence; bolstered by his new plan and his brother’s faith.  

He crossed the arctic courtyard fearlessly, ascended the slippery marble steps with grace, and crossed the frosty threshold without hesitation.

Though there was no one there to greet him, he was not dissuaded; he knew where he had to go.

He turned to the left, following the path plotted out by Chris the night before, tracing his way back to The Beast’s private parlour.

He approached the massive white doors; rapping the knocker without pause.

He was met with silence.

Was The Beast not there?

Then, a quiet sigh and a small, defeated “. . . enter”

Yuuri took a deep breath and pushed open the doors.

The Beast was slumped in a plush magenta armchair, facing the fireplace; his back to the door.

He looked . . . devastated.

Yuuri was suddenly shy . . . maybe he should . . . The Beast didn't know it was him, after all.

“ . . . hi . . .” He said quietly; his voice ghosting tentatively over the luxurious carpet and the embellished walls and the gilded decorations.

He had meant to say something more . . . appropriate . . . but that’s all that had come out.

The Beast bolted upright; slowly turning to face him. Not one inch the composed Master that Yuuri had come to know.

“. . . Yuuri?” His name fell from The Beast’s lips in a whisper. Yuuri wasn't even certain he had heard it.

Suddenly, The Beast remembered himself and stood, nearly knocking over the chair.

“M-master Katsuki . . . please, come in . . . I . . . was unaware you had returned. Is everything alright? Is there something you need?” As he spoke, the frenetic energy faded, replaced by the more familiar calm demeanor.

“Ah . . . no. No, everything is fine. Sorry . . . sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you like this . . .” Yuuri apologised sheepishly, “Phichit . . . decided to go home. But I thought . . . I mean, if it’s alright with you . . . I thought I might . . . stay a while longer,”

“. . . Of course . . . of course, as long as you like,” The Beast replied, and there was that tone in his voice again; that big, unnameable thing that made Yuuri want to shy away and bask in it all at one.

Was it . . . fondness? Reverence?

Whatever it was, it hung between them heavily in the silence which followed.

“I . . . should inform the staff that we will continue to host you,” The Beast said at length, cool and collected once again, “If I may . . . how long were you intending to stay, monsieur?”

Yuuri flushed, “I . . . hadn't really thought that far ahead,” he admitted timidly, “Umm . . . for as long as you’ll have me, I suppose,”

That seemed  to give The Beast pause; Yuuri hoped it was a good pause.

“I’ll tell them at once,” The Beast said finally, his voice soft and almost sweet.

“Ok . . .” Yuuri nodded, uncertain what to do next, “I should, um . . . leave you to it . . . I suppose . . .” he turned to exit the pink and purple parlour.

“. . . Master Katsuki –” The Beast called after him hesitantly.

Yuuri turned back to The Beast, who looked incredibly conflicted.

“Yuuri,” he offered with a warm smile, “Just ‘Yuuri’ is fine,”

The Beast softened ever so slightly, still seemingly torn.

Eventually, he opted to drop the pretense and pursue his inquiry.

“ . . . Why did you come back?” The question was sanded down and vulnerable; all soft edges and sweet filling.

 Yuuri turned a pensive gaze out the window at the shimmering winter world around them.

Because I owe you.

Because you saved my brother’s life.

Because I want to help you.

Because I want to break the spell.

Because I’m the only one who can; because now I have a plan.

Because I care about you; because I care about my new friends.

Because I don't want to go home.

Because it’s beautiful here and everyone is so kind.

Because it’s magical and exciting.

Because I don’t want to spend my days feeding the chickens and weeding the garden.

Because I don't want to live that poor provincial life.

Because I don’t want to face J.J. again.

Because this is where I belong.

“. . . because . . .” Yuuri replied finally, “ . . . it would be terribly rude of me to turn down your gracious invitation . . . don’t you think?”

He looked back to his host.

The Beast hesitated; searching Yuuri for any trace of doubt, before conceding to his wishes.  

“Very well then,” The Beast acquiesced gently, “If you would be so kind as to accompany me, we can begin to make the necessary arrangements for your stay . . . Yuuri”  

“I would like that,” Yuuri agreed warmly, “Thank you,”

“You are most welcome,” The Beast returned; melting ever so slightly.

The two exited the parlour, walking side-by-side down the gilded halls of Yuuri’s enchanted new home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [French] Non! Ne sois pas ridicule! = No! Don't be silly! 
> 
> [Russian] O bozhe = O, Боже = Oh Dear/Oh my
> 
> [French] Mon chou = My dear/Dear one/My sweet bun/Sweetie
> 
> [French] Mon poulet = My chicken/My pet (Term of Endearment usually used for family/close friends/children) 
> 
> [Swiss German] Was ist so lustig, Chris = What’s so funny, Chris?
> 
> [Swiss German] Schäri = Darling (Colloquial – derived from the French word “chéri”) 
> 
> [French] Absolument = Absolutely 
> 
> [Swiss German] Müsli = Mouse (Colloquial) (Term of Endearment)
> 
> [French] Oui, monsieur = Yes, Sir
> 
> [French] Ma petite étincelle = My little spark
> 
> [Swiss German] Mein herzli = My heart (Colloquial) 
> 
> [Swiss German] Schnüggerli = Snuggle-bunny/Cuddle-muffin (Colloquial) (Term of Endearment used for a lover, more specifically a “Cuddle Buddy”)
> 
> [Japanese] Ki o tsuke te ne = き お つけ て ね = Please take care/safe travels. 
> 
> [Japanese] Minako ni yoroshiku ne = ミナコ に よろしく ね = Say hello to Minako for me. 
> 
> [Thai] C̄hạn s̄ạỵỵā ẁā c̄hạn ca dị̂ phb khuṇ xīk nı rĕw «nī̂ = ฉันสัญญาว่าฉันจะได้พบคุณอีกในเร็ว ๆ นี้ = I promise I’ll see you again soon. 
> 
> ***As always, feel free to send me a note with any corrections/suggestions!


	4. The Strategy, The Suggestion & The Scheme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected problems arise as J.J., Viktor and Phichit each put new plans into motion. Hearts and hopes are on the line . . . but some ideas will work better than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 is here! Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> This one's a bit early, since I'll be away for the next couple weeks as part of a Theater Festival, and I didn't want to leave you hanging! Chapter 5 might be delayed a bit, but I promise I won't abandon this fic - I'm having way too much fun writing it and you are ALL so sweet! 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at silverscribblesuniverse.tumblr.com
> 
> TECHNICAL NOTES:
> 
> As always, if you see anything weird in my translations, let me know and I'll fix it!
> 
> *** Swiss German VS High German: It is my intention that Christophe and Masumi are, for the most part, speaking Swiss German to one another, but this chapter has some more High German in it, as I couldn't find some of the translations I was looking for in Swiss German - if you have any translation suggestions, feel free to shoot me a note! :D 
> 
> FIND TRANSLATIONS IN THE 'END NOTES'
> 
>  
> 
> ***CONTENT WARNINGS FOR CHAPTER 3
> 
> LANGUAGE AND/OR VIOLENCE - Please be aware that there may be the occasional curse word/violent scene in this work.
> 
> ***A NOTE ABOUT NON-CON/DUB-CON:
> 
> This work will contain no explicit sexual content, though it will contain romantic content, such as kissing and/or implied sexual interest, like characters talking about being in love, innuendos, etc.
> 
> This Chapter contains sexual innuendo.
> 
> Also, as previously noted - this work involves themes regarding unwanted romantic/sexual advances and the rejection of personal autonomy. These themes can be a sensitive subject for many, so please proceed with caution.

Jean Jacques Leroy pouted into his pint, before thumping it back down on the wooden table with a grimace.

Around him The Tavern roared with laughter, while across from him, Isabella raised a skeptical eyebrow.

He lifted his eyes to her, looking wounded.

She took a deep breath, exhaling with a roll of her own, “What _ever_ could be the matter, J.J.?” she asked sarcastically; they both knew _exactly_ what had put the hunter in such a snit.

Katsuki Yuuri had rejected him twice now.

 _Twice_.

The first time, J.J. was willing to write off as a fluke; a miscommunication. He had conceded that perhaps he had come on too strong and scared Yuuri off.

But _twice_?

Twice was no mistake; especially not with how rudely the dancer had dismissed him. And while Isabella had told J.J., _over and over and over again_ , to just let it go, to move on and find someone _better_ and _more worthy_ of his time and affections, the hunter would not be dissuaded.

No, because now, this was a matter of _honor_ ; a matter of _pride_. Now it was a _challenge_ , which meant that Isabella would never hear the damn end of it.

J.J. huffed, “Real nice, Isabella,” he pouted, “here I am, _heartbroken_ , and my best friend doesn’t even care”

Isabella softened a little bit at that, “Of course I care, J.J.,” she countered, “I just . . . I don’t know what else to tell you. I know how much you like Yuuri . . . I know you would do _anything_ for him but . . . honestly, I don’t know what you see in him. He’s not good enough for you. He isn’t worth it. You’re driving yourself to madness over him and . . . I just hate seeing you this way,” The confession tumbled out almost shyly.

“Well, I don’t like _being_ this way either, but what am I supposed to do?” J.J. lamented, “Just . . . give up?”

Isabella shrugged, “Would that really be so terrible? I mean . . . how can you live like this? Pining after Yuuri day in and day out . . . it’s not like, you, J.J. . . . I mean, there are lots of other eligible matches in the village . . . people who are just as pretty as him. People who would _love_ to be with you . . .”

J.J. picked up his tankard, contemplating the dregs of his ale.

“Yea, but . . . but what if I stop now and then he changes his mind or something? What if I give up on us and end up with the wrong person instead? What if he’s . . . you know . . . my one true love? Shouldn’t I _fight_ for my _one true love_? Isn’t that what heroes do?” he sighed in irritation, running a hand through his hair.  

Isabella glared at J.J., “You think _Katsuki Yuuri_ is your _one true love_?” she demanded.

“Why couldn't he be?” J.J. shot back, affronted.

Isabella just continued to glare.

J.J. heaved a deep, sorrowful sigh, “I don't . . . I don't know how to describe it, Isabella . . . all I know is that _I’ve never felt this way before_. And . . . I don’t know what to do about it. I mean, he says we don't have anything in common . . . and maybe we don't . . . but how am I supposed to just _stop loving_ someone? How do you just _turn that off_? Believe me, I’ve _tried_ ,” he insisted desperately, “I _know_ it doesn’t make any sense, but . . . I . . . I see him dancing and it’s _so beautiful_ , I just . . . I feel like I _know him_ , you know? And then I start thinking about the future we could have together and how happy we could be . . . and . . . don’t I _deserve_ to be _happy_ , Isabella?” 

Isabella paused, her eyebrows furrowing; J.J. spoke like a man haunted. It was . . . wistful and sappy and . . . gross.

She had never seen him this way before.

“ . . . you . . . you’re not happy now?” She asked haltingly, “But . . .  you’re an incredible marksman, the whole town loves you, you have a great house, lots of money . . .”

J.J. straightened a little as he spoke, “Well . . . I mean, sure I have those _things_ but . . . it’s still a lot of work. I mean, I didn’t get where I am by just sitting around . . . I worked _really hard_ to become a great hunter; I practiced my marksmanship _daily_ for _years on end_ to be this good. And sure, maybe people like me, but I spend _a lot of time_ helping out around town . . . I was at the Miller’s farm for _five hours_ yesterday loading flour cause Davey’s come down with the flu. I mean . . . I’m not _unhappy_ with my lot . . . but . . . it’s not as perfect as everyone thinks it is either. And the money and the house and everything . . . I mean, that stuff is nice, sure, but gold can't really keep you company . . . and that big ‘ol house . . .  well, to be honest Isabella . . . it gets pretty lonely up there some days . . .”

Isabella nodded; something akin to shame settling in her bones.

Jean Jacques Leroy was a strong man; the strongest she had ever known, apart from maybe her own father, and to hear him talk this way . . .

Isabella was no stranger to hard work herself . . . hard work was simply the way of the world; but the way J.J. always seemed to do the impossible, and moreover, seemed to do the impossible with a smile on his face . . . well, it inspired her. It made her feel like maybe there really were such things a miracles.

It was the reason she loved him so.

“. . . You don’t think . . . you don’t think it’s _possible_ for _someone else_ to make you happy like that? The way you think Yuuri could?” She asked, her voice even and flat.

J.J. sighed, “If there is . . . I haven’t met them yet.”

Isabella took a deep pull of her own ale; slamming her pint down on the wooden table.

“Well . . .” She said at last, “If you’re certain it’s what you want . . . I guess Yuuri’s worth another shot then, isn’t he?”

J.J. slumped forward now, elbows resting on the table, “If I only I could see him again . . .” he growled, “I _know_ I could do better. I messed up . . . I messed up _bad_. I know I did. I admit it. But . . . I do love him. I just need a way to prove it . . . ”

He had told Isabella all about last evening’s disastrous encounter at the cottage; and this afternoon’ even more disastrous encounter with Minako. 

J.J. had gone up to the cottage see Yuuri once again, but had been greeted by the tutor instead, who had simply slammed the door in his face, without uttering so much as a word.

Isabella rolled her eyes. They were just so _rude_ ; the lot of them.

“J.J.,” she sighed, eyes wandering sadly over her forlorn friend, “have you considered that perhaps just _begging_ Yuuri to marry you _over_ and _over_ and _over_ might not work?”

J.J. cocked an eyebrow, “what do you mean?” he blurted

Isabella scrunched her eyes together; she couldn’t _believe_ she was about to do this.

But J.J. was in love, and she loved J.J., and she just wanted him to be happy . . .

She couldn’t stand seeing him so sad, and she couldn’t stand watching him pine, and even though it would hurt watching him be with someone else . . . it couldn’t possibly hurt half as much as watching him wallow in his own misery, right?

And if Katsuki Yuuri could make J.J. smile again, wouldn't that be worth it?

“What I mean,” Isabella huffed, “is that you don’t hunt a fox the same way you hunt a falcon. You have to change up your tactics, try a different strategy . . .”

J.J.’s eyes widened slightly in comprehension.

“What was it he said to you again?” Isabella asked, her mind whirring as the ideas fell in to place, “about his family?”

“He said . . . I didn’t include his family in our future . . . and I didn’t know anything about him . . . and that I didn’t court him properly,” J.J. muttered glumly.

“Well, isn’t it obvious, then?” Isabella opined, “Give him some space, let things settle down, and then . . . court him properly, just like he wanted. Starting with his family. Get to know them. Get them to like you, then do the _proper thing_ and _ask for their blessing_ before you propose again. Think about it . . . who knows Yuuri better than that weird inventor and that snobby teacher? It’s perfect. His family will _adore you_ and put in a good word with him, and you’ll learn everything you need to win his heart in the process. Two birds. One stone.” Isabella smirked, very self-satisfied. 

Though truthfully, she would have been _more satisfied_ if she weren’t helping the man she loved try to seduce another.

But this was what J.J. wanted . . . to marry into that family of oddballs and spend the rest of his life shackled to a boring bookworm . . .  and if it would make him happy . . . then so be it.

And if Katsuki Yuuri ever hurt so much as a single hair in J.J’s precious head . . . then he would have to answer to _her_.

J.J. was nodding along, the thoughts still processing.

“I know he’s mad right now . . .” Isabella continued, “but . . . maybe you can show him that you’ve _changed_. That things between you can be _different_. And when he sees everything you’ve done _just to be with him_ , maybe he’ll finally understand how much you . . . love him . . . and he’ll stop being such a damn fool and the two of you can just . . . get married already . . . ” 

J.J. perked up a bit at that, “You think so?”

Isabella smiled softly, “Of course . . . anyone would be lucky to be with you, J.J.”

The grin she received in return made it all worth it.

Almost.

“Thanks Isabella!” J.J. smirked, “What would I do without you?” he lifted his flagon in a toast, “To good friends . . .”

Isabella returned the toast triumphantly.  

“. . . and to my future husband, Yuuri Katsuki!” J.J. beamed and downed the rest of his ale in a single gulp; then rose for another round, calling the musicians to strike up a jig as he did.

Isabella watched him saunter jovially around the tavern, glad to see J.J. back to his old self once again.

 

Later that night when Isabella had returned home, she pulled a small music box from her trunk of childhood toys. She turned the key twice, letting the tinny music fill her bedroom. She gazed at the pastel ballerinas painted all along the sides; up en pointe in pink tutus with their arms stretched gracefully over their heads. She looked at herself in the mirror; bright red hunting jacket and shiny black boots; heavy like stones and splattered with mud.  

She popped onto her toes; she reached her arms up . . .

. . . and slid off balance with a thud.

The music stopped mid-note, and Isabella let out a small sigh.

She closed the lid, replaced the music box, and got ready for bed in silence.

Who even liked dancing, anyway?

 

*****

 

Yuuri awoke to soft white light and a luxurious silky embrace.

He sat up slowly and looked around the gilded bedroom foggily; he still couldn’t believe it. Still couldn’t believe that he was actually here, living in the beautiful enchanted castle with his wonderful new friends.

He had spent the rest of the day yesterday with The Beast, deciding how best to settle him in, and touring the magnificent manor; it was even more massive than Yuuri had supposed, three opulent stories sprawling out over the grounds endlessly. After nearly an entire day, there were still parts of the castle he hadn’t seen.

Yuuri slid out of his large sky blue bed to dress for the day.

They had decided it would be easiest for him to stay in the Eastern Suite, as it was the chamber most familiar to him; though Christophe had stated _repeatedly_ that it would be no trouble to move him to a Western Suite, closer to the Master’s own, should Yuuri get too lonely. But this room had already been cleaned out and prepared, and The Beast had said it was the nicest and largest after his own, so Yuuri insisted that he not make any more work for them all by moving him. Besides, it was a beautiful chamber; located at what Yuuri now knew was the very end of the second floor. It had a little private sitting room through the interior doors, with an adjacent privy, and a large balcony that looked out over the extensive gardens behind the castle.

During their tour, Yuuri had been surprised how many other rooms had fallen out of use; parlors and bedchambers with furniture covered in white sheets to protect them from aging, covered in dust and threatened by frost. That’s why so many doors had stood closed; his heart had ached a bit to look at those unused rooms, once filled with liveliness and laughter, now silent and haunted by memories past. 

He imagined his own room must have been like that once; the thought striking a melancholy chord.

But he was going to change all that; once he helped The Beast break the spell.

He quickly pulled on his breeches, shirt and blue waistcoat, and was in the middle of lacing his soft shoes, when he heard a knock at the door.

“Ah . . . come in!” He called gracelessly, balancing on one foot as he leaned against the bedpost, tying the knot.

Ecstatic giggles preceded a harsh groan, as the towering doors clattered open violently.

Yuuri nearly fell over in surprise; he had been expecting The Beast or Yakov or Chris, but instead, a large mahogany footstool burst into the room, bounding around and barking merrily like a dog, as a fan and a handkerchief rode upon its wildly bucking surface. Behind them, a little tea cart rolled in slowly, stacked with tea and milk and eggs and toast, supervised by the angriest looking teacup Yuuri had ever seen.

Though, to be fair, Yuuri had never seen a teacup look angry before, so he didn’t have much basis for comparison. 

Realization dawned on him suddenly; this must be the teacup Phichit had told him about . . . and the dog-stool . . .

The fan and the handkerchief, however, were new.

Suddenly the dog-stool in question was jumping up on Yuuri, planting its front feet on his chest and barking happily in his face; pinning him to the bedpost.

“Well . . . hi there . . . cutie . . .” Yuuri said uncertainly, gently patting the dog-stool where he guessed its head to be.

Yuuri did love dogs, poodles especially, and he had decided the moment he had become a permanent resident of the Castle that regardless of whatever strange apparitions the magic might throw at him, the best plan always had been, and always would be, to just be polite and nod and smile and ‘go with it’.

The petting earned a happy ‘yip’ from the dog-stool, so Yuuri assumed he had made the right call once again.

“Makkachin, down!” A scandalized voice purred in a sweet soprano.

“Bad girl!” Another voice reprimanded gently in a bubbling alto, “We do NOT jump up on the Master’s guests!”

With a whine, the dog-stool relented, unpinning Yuuri and going back down onto all fours.

“Good girl!” The soprano cooed, “Good girl, Makkachin!” Yuuri could now see that this voice came from the fan.

“I am _so_ sorry . . .” The alto handkerchief apologized contritely; her embroidered face contorting with worry.

Yuuri just smiled, “No, no!” he chirped with a wave, “Don’t worry, it’s fine! I love dogs, so . . .”

“So are you going to going to eat your breakfast before it gets cold, or did Grandpa make it for nothing?”

Yuuri, the fan, the handkerchief and the dog-stool all looked to the teacup; Yuuri sheepishly, the handkerchief and the fan with shock.

“Yuri!” the handkerchief snapped, “Don't be so rude to our guest!”

Yuuri was stunned a moment, before realizing she had been talking to the teacup and not to him. He smiled a little to himself; their names were so similar . . . this was going to be interesting.

“Thank you, but it’s . . . he’s right,” Yuuri apologized quickly, heading for the tea-cart “I hope you didn't go to too much trouble,”

He smiled at the teacup, who glowered in return, “Pfft, don't thank _me_ . . . _Grandpa_ made it . . . just don't want you wasting it . . . ” he rounded on the handkerchief now, “And you’re one to talk, _Mila_! You and Sara shouldn’t even be here! At least _I’m working_ . . . you two are just being nuisances!”

Mila the handkerchief and Sara the fan both looked hurt, and Yuuri felt a pang of sympathy for the high-spirited accessories.

“It’s no bother at all! Really!” He interjected quickly, “It’s . . . nice! I like the company!”

Both ladies perked up instantly, Yuri rolled his eyes.

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear that! Chris was right, you really _are_ sweet!” Mila crooned brightly, “But still, I’m sorry we barged in unannounced . . . Makkachin just gets _so excited_ . . .”

The dog-stool barked at the sound of her name, making Yuuri laugh.

“I’m sorry too,” Sara added sweetly, “We just _really, really, really_ wanted to meet you! It’s been so long since we’ve had guests!”

Yuuri blushed at the attention, “Oh . . . well, it’s very nice to meet you . . . Mila and Sara, was it?”

Sara smiled proudly, “Si, signore! Both of us ladies in waiting to our Master’s court”, she answered with a little nod.

Mila grinned wickedly, “The teacup is Yuri . . . On milyy malen'kiy paren', ne tak li?”

Yuri threw a dirty look at the handkerchief, “YA ub'yu tebya, Mila!

“ _Špana_ ,” She shot back gleefully.

“ _Staraya ved'ma_ ,” He huffed is response.  

Mila then smiled sweetly back at Yuuri, “You’ll have to forgive his manners, he’s a little bit _grumpy_ today”

The teacup growled again, “. . . I’ll show you ‘ _grumpy_ ’ you _hag_ . . .” he muttered venomously.

Sara giggled, “Yuri, you really shouldn’t use such _ugly_ words around Master Katsuki,” she chided teasingly.

Yuri silently fumed in response.

“Oh, please, just . . . just Yuuri is fine,” Yuuri interjected graciously.

Sara and Mila lit up, their eyes going wide.

“Wow!”

“Really?”

“Arf, Arf, Arf!”

“Ugh!” Yuri was rolling his eyes again.

 Then another voice entered the fray.

“Hmm? What? What is it? What’s going on?” The voice was thick with sleep, deep and male with a rumbling accent.

Mila and Sara turned to one another, crying out in gleeful unison, “ _GEORGI’S AWAKE_!”

Yuuri spun towards the new voice, watching the wardrobe as it shifted into wakefulness with a creak and a groan; his deep turquoise doors fanning open as he awoke.

“. . . Mmm? Did I miss som–”

The wardrobe’s blue eyes came to rest on Yuuri, who waved awkwardly in greeting.

“Umm . . . hello . . .” Yuuri said shyly.

“A boy!” The wardrobe, Georgi, exclaimed, “ _A HUMAN BOY_!”

The way Georgi said it, with such _feeling_ in his voice, Yuuri was almost worried the poor guy might faint . . . had he not been a 7-foot-tall solid oak wardrobe, of course.

“Georgi, this is Katsuki Yuuri,” Mila introduced politely; “he’s going to be living here from now on!” Her voice tingled with excitement as Sara grinned wide beside her.

“Living here? With us? From now on?” Georgi gasped dramatically, “Oh what wonderful news! So very pleased to meet you, moy Gospodin!”

“Ugh,” Yuri huffed from the tea-cart, adding a subtle, “get a hold of yourself Georgi,” under his breath.

Yuuri’s mind reeled; a bit overwhelmed. He exchanged pleasantries a few minutes more, saying once again how nice it was to meet everyone, and insisting for what felt like the hundredth time that they should all just call him Yuuri. He quite liked all the new friends he was making, but truth be told, the sudden scrutiny was wrecking havoc on his nerves. Honestly, what Yuuri wanted more than anything in that moment was that tea and those eggs. They smelled amazing . . .

But he didn't want to be rude, and the others were still talking.

He was starting to see what Phichit meant with his warning about not waking the wardrobe; Yuuri smiled thinking of his brother, wishing Phichit were there with him now, and hoping he had made it home safely.

 “Ahh, so handsome!” Georgi fawned, “So lithe! Such lovely eyes! He’ll do very nicely, I think!”

That got Yuuri’s attention once more, “ . . . do nicely?” he asked suspiciously, “do nicely for what?”

For the first time since he had awoken that morning, the room was quiet.

“ . . . for . . . _dressing_ . . . of course!” Mila smiled after a long minute. She looked at Sara and the two started giggling.

“Yes! Dressing! That’s what he meant! Obviously!” Sara agreed instantly, “Georgi is the palace clothier . . . so . . . he’s just excited to have someone to _dress_ . . . again . . . _right Georgi_?”

Both women gave the wardrobe a pointed look.

A pause, a gasp, and then, “Yes! Of course . . . my _poor, beautiful creations_ haven’t seen the light of day in . . . _years_!” Georgi clarified, “What with my _elegant masterpieces_ being meant for the human frame . . . and no humans about the castle . . . and my _dear, sweet Anya_ so far from my reach . . .”

“Oh _mercy_ ” Yuri snapped, “If you’re going to start talking about _Anya_ , then I’m _out of here_! Katsuki, just leave the cart in the hall when you’re done!”

Yuri hopped off the cart, and the rest turned to watch him leave . . . when they all noticed a very stoic figure looming in the doorway; The Beast.

How he managed to be so enormous, yet so silent, Yuuri would never know.

The Beast looked slowly around the chaos of the room; from the surly teacup and abandoned cart to the boisterous wardrobe to the wandering dog-stool and her chatty charges, to a very frazzled Katsuki Yuuri.

He raised one bushy silver eyebrow, “Pardon my intrusion. The door was open . . . and I couldn’t help but wonder where all my staff had disappeared to” he admonished.

The trinkets all cast their eyes downward, shamefaced; even Yuri looked a little bit chastised, though he rolled his eyes and tried not to show it. A small chorus of “Apologies, Master” fell from their collective lips. Even Makkachin let out a repentant whine.

“Ah. Wait . . . please don’t be mad at them. It’s actually my fault,” Yuuri interjected quickly, “I . . . asked them to stay. I just wanted to meet them . . . I didn't mean to disrupt things”

The Beast paused a moment, scrutinizing Yuuri; glancing between his cold breakfast and  his half-tied shoes and his flustered face, knowing instantly that what Yuuri said could only possibly be half-true at best.

The Beast softened immediately, his heart quickening; thinking how his overbearing staff would surely be the death of this poor, sweet boy, “In that case, please excuse my interruption,” he said graciously, “. . . though I would recommend enjoying your breakfast before it gets much colder, Yuuri,” he added knowingly.

Yuuri smiled back at him, understanding; relief written across his features.

“Perhaps,” The Beast continued, “You would like to take breakfast in your sitting room; it has a lovely view of the gardens,”

“Thank you,” Yuuri answered gratefully, “I would like that,”

“And I’m certain your new fellows would be delighted to see you again _later this afternoon_ ” he said pointedly, but not unkindly, as he looked back to the scattered staff, who sheepishly nodded their agreement.

After a round of polite goodbyes from Sara and Mila, a huff from Yuri and a pat on the head to Makkachin, Yuuri was finally retiring to eat his breakfast in the sitting room; overlooking the wintry gardens through the magnificent picture window.

“It’s beautiful” he breathed. The Beast, who was gazing out across the gardens just as fondly nodded in reply.

“It’s . . . rather warm today, considering,” The Beast said at last, “A most rare opportunity. Would you . . . care to take a walk this afternoon?”

“Absolutely” Yuuri agreed brightly, smiling up at The Beast.

“Very well,” The Beast said, smiling back, “Then, I shall leave you to your breakfast, and you may call on me whenever you please,”

Yuuri nodded and The Beast departed; leaving him to enjoy the view, and his eggs, in glorious peace and quiet.

 

*****

 

“Ohh . . . a walk in the gardens, how _romantic_! And here I thought I was going to have to woo Yuuri _for_ you!” Chris cooed victoriously.

Viktor was reclined in his favourite magenta chair, safe in the confines of his private parlour; though ‘safe’ was a relative term, with Christophe and Masumi lounging on the mantle above him and mocking his love life.

Though perhaps, considering the circumstances, they had earned the right.

But all the same, Christophe’s lascivious comments didn't help the racing of his beastly heart as he desperately tried to remain patient; awaiting Yuuri’s arrival for their early afternoon stroll.

“Mmm . . . you just might yet, mein herzli,” Masumi cautioned teasingly, “The Master does look rather nervous,”

“Nervous? Don't be ridiculous . . .” Viktor pouted, no venom in is words, “If I fail to make Yuuri fall in love with me I’ve only doomed this castle and everyone in it, so why should I be nervous?”

Christophe turned back to Masumi, “I believe you’re right, Müsli . . . I’m afraid Viktor is _much to sour_ to do any proper wooing today,” he said pointedly.  

Viktor shifted so he was now facing away from the snickering couple, instead choosing to distract himself with the view out the window.

“I don't think he’s _sour_ , schäri,” Masumi countered thoughtfully, “I would say . . . liebeskrank?”

Christophe smirked in delight, “What? _Already_?”

“Mmm Hmm . . .” Masumi purred, “Ich glaube, da ist jemand ein bisschen in Yuuri verknallt,”

Chris let out a scandalized gasp, “ _ich wusste es_!"

Viktor huffed, drumming his claws impatiently on the armrest and waiting for the couple to finish; he had learned very early on that when the pair was in a teasing mood, there really was no stopping them.

One of their favourite ploys was to speak to one another in their native dialect, _knowing_ that Viktor could not understand a word. It was endlessly entertaining to them, and they would carry on entire conversations in front of him shamelessly; discussing innocent things like the weather in salacious tones in order to trick Viktor into thinking they were gossiping about him.

He suspected the whole thing had started as a way for the two to exchange sweet nothings while on duty; because although Christophe had never been shy about expressing his affections, Masumi had once been a model employee. When the two had started their flirtations years ago, Masumi had been extremely concerned about remaining professional in the eyes of their employer.

But Christophe, as usual, had been a terrible influence . . . and now Viktor had a Maître D’ who called him ‘ _Master_ ’ in embarrassingly carnal tones, and a Head Butler who teased him in a language he didn’t understand, while making eyes at said Maître D’.

Still . . . he supposed it was all kind of . . . sweet.

Usually Viktor didn't let their needling get to him; he had learned to simply tune it out over the years . . . but now he couldn't help but eavesdrop.

He knew they were _actually talking about him_ this time; he was _certain_ Masumi had said ‘Yuuri’ . . . 

“Yes, _Master_?” Chris drawled tauntingly, “Is there something about our conversation you find _interesting_?”

“What? Of course not,” Viktor lied dismissively, still staring straight ahead out the window.

“ _Really_?” Christophe pressed, as Masumi suppressed a snort, “because . . . your _eyes_ might be pointed _that_ way, but your _ears_ . . . are pointed _this_ way”  

Viktor froze, completely mortified, as he realized that his wolf-like ears had, in fact, unconsciously swiveled almost 90 degrees towards the couple on the mantle, so as to better hear their conversation.

Viktor said nothing, just grit his teeth and slowly, purposefully turned both his large fuzzy ears forward once again with as much dignity as he could muster.

The candelabrum and the feather duster burst out into uproarious laughter.

Viktor let out a defeated sigh as the couple’s booming guffaws rang through the room; his chest grew tight both with embarrassment and longing. Occasions for laughter in the castle were few and far between these days, and he could not begrudge the pair this simple pleasure.

He thought back to this morning, to mere hours ago when he had stumbled across the chaos of Yuuri’s room; how he had panicked, thinking that the staff were pestering Yuuri, that Yuuri might grow annoyed, might change his mind and leave . . .

But he hadn’t. He had stayed and smiled; welcoming the company along with the complete and utter chaos they brought with them.

Viktor was not one for chaos. He had always sought perfection in every word and deed; commanding and precise and respected. He had crafted his world by hand, built it to his exact specifications and run it like clockwork . . .

And now there was nothing; nothing but hardship and ruin and turmoil.

But . . . Yuuri somehow managed to find a way to smile through the chaos . . . so could Viktor not learn to do the same?

“Mmm . . . see, you are being ignored, mein herzli,” Masumi pouted jokingly, “Perhaps we should be nicer to our poor Master,”

Viktor snapped out of his stupor, looking back to the pair on the mantle, “Apologies,” he mumbled sincerely, “I was . . . distracted,”

 Christophe smirked, “Mmm . . . thinking about _Yuuri_?” he teased boldly.

Viktor opened his muzzle to object, but stopped, looking between the candelabrum and the feather duster; two good men, two good _friends_ who didn't _deserve_ to be a candelabrum and a feather duster; two lovers still together amidst the chaos, still hopeful in the face of adversity, still laughing in the wake of tragedy.

And still willing to help a poor, foolish Prince . . . if only he would let them.

“. . . Yes,” Viktor admitted quietly, awaiting the barrage sure to follow.

Both Chris and Masumi just gaped at him in shock for a moment, before Chris started in on the dramatics.

“Meine Güte!” He gasped, “Prince Viktor Nikiforov has _feelings_! And he’s _actually admitting they exist_! It’s a miracle! Hold me, Müsli . . .”

Viktor rolled his eyes, while Masumi chuckled.

“I would, mein herzli, but I don’t have _arms_ ,” the feather duster quipped through his laughter.

“Fine! Then _I’ll_ hold _you_!” Chris countered salaciously, weaving his gold-plated sconces tightly around Masumi’s dark wooden handle, causing him to squeak out a scandalized “Chris! Behave!” in response.

The sweet ache in Viktor’s chest bloomed once more, and he averted his eyes politely.

“So . . .” Christophe wheedled, “what’s the plan, Viktor?”

Viktor looked up blankly “ . . . plan?”

Chris heaved an exasperated sigh, “for the romantic walk in the garden, of course!” he gave Viktor a sly grin, “How are you going to sweep Yuuri off his feet?”

Viktor’s eyes went wide; while he had certainly had _many_ ideas for sweeping Yuuri off his feet, most of those fantasies had involved moonlight and rose petals and sweet nothings whispered between them under the stars . . . and the two of them were _definitely_ not intimate enough for that sort of thing yet. 

Wait . . . were they?

No; absolutely not. He was getting ahead of himself.

But . . . how did one even get to that point with one’s . . . _intended_?

Assuming Yuuri would want to be his . . . _intended_ . . . in the first place; what with the fangs and the claws and the . . . fuzzy ears.

Ugh. This was already a disaster.

When Viktor had been human, he hadn’t given courting a second thought; ruling his kingdom had been everything to him. He had always assumed that, should he ever enter into a marriage, it would be one of convenience. Sure, he wouldn't have wed just _anyone_ . . . he would have wanted someone compatible and logical and respectable; a good sensible match who would have made his kingdom stronger; but _'love'_ had never entered into the equation. 

And truth be told, he could have been satisfied with a worthy partner; even one he didn't love. Or he could have lived out his years alone happily enough if it came right down to it.

But then that wretched _enchantress_ had come along and _ruined everything_ with this _horrid spell_ , and now nothing made sense anymore, and nothing was satisfying anymore and things could never go back to the way they once were, because now Viktor had met Katsuki Yuuri.

Katsuki Yuuri, who made him feel things he never had before.

Katsuki Yuuri, who could smile even through the chaos. 

Katsuki Yuuri, who never ceased to surprise him.

Viktor whined, sounding very much like Makkachin, and buried his face in his paws.

“Now, now,” Masumi soothed, “surely you had _some idea_ what you were going to talk about?” he prompted gently.

“No . . .” Viktor moaned pathetically, “I just . . . I don’t know . . . we were looking out the window at the garden and _he_ said it looked beautiful so I offered to show it to him . . . and he said yes . . . so . . . I? Ugh! What was I _thinking_? He’ll be here any minute! This was a terrible idea!”

“No! No, Viktor . . . ” Masumi cooed sympathetically, “It’s a _wonderful_ idea!”

“The gardens are stunning!” Chris added sincerely, “you don’t have to _say_ anything! Just . . . let the flowers do the talking!”

 “Exactly!” Masumi confirmed, “Yuuri is already excited to see them, so just . . . play off of that!”

“And might I suggest, that if the moment feels right . . .” Chris purred, “then perhaps a little bit of _charm_ couldn't hurt . . . compliment him . . . maybe offer him your arm . . . hold his hand . . .”

Viktor held up both paws in response, obsidian claws glinting; a deadpan expression on his face.

“Ah,” Chris conceded, “Point taken. What I mean is . . . you _could_ stand to be a bit more . . . relaxed?”

“Personable” Masumi interjected.

“Less . . . ominous? Rigid? Stoic?” Christophe teased.

Viktor was about to snap back, but Masumi diffused him before he spoke, “Remember, you’re wooing a potential lover . . . not entering a trade negotiation. You don’t have to be so . . . ”

“Frigid?” Chris supplied with a smirk.

“ _Formal_ ” Masumi corrected pointedly, with a warning glance to Chris.

“Just . . . be Viktor” Chris suggested finally. His words were soft and sincere, “I mean . . . Masumi and I like you for who you are . . . mostly. Why shouldn’t Yuuri?”

There was a teasing grin etched into his plating, but the words were warm and genuine.

Viktor nodded.

He could do this.

There was a gentle rap on the parlor door.

Viktor jumped.

He couldn't do this.

He looked back to Chris and Masumi with pleading eyes.

“Ah-ah,” Chris tutted, still smirking, “Yuuri is waiting for you . . . better get going, mon petit bichon!”

Viktor growled playfully as he stood; then took a deep breath, nodded to his friends, and went to answer the door.

“Aww, bon toutou!” Chris praised, and Masumi burst out laughing once again.

Viktor snorted, in spite of himself.

He gripped the golden door handle tightly, steeling his resolve and finally turning it.

He could do this; it was just an afternoon in the gardens.

An afternoon in the gardens with the most beautiful boy to ever walk the earth; a boy who made Viktor want to be a better man. A boy who unwittingly held Viktor’s life, and the lives of all his staff in the palm of his gentle hands.

Viktor took a deep breath; He could do this.

He hoped.

 

*****

 

The castle gardens glittered gloriously in the noon day sun as Yuuri and The Beast stepped onto the winding walkway.    

Yuuri shivered slightly, pushing his hands further into the soft white muff at his waist.

When Georgi had overheard that he planned to spend the afternoon walking about outside, he had insisted that Yuuri wear something much warmer than his travelling cloak, and had proceeded to dress Yuuri in a heavy winter justacorps the colour of rouge, trimmed in white fur, matched with white woolen hose and shiny black shoes.

The clothes were very fine; handsome and well made, and they kept out the cold nicely, though the shoes were not particularly well suited to walking on the ice, and Yuuri often found himself sliding off balance; not that his own worn leather shoes would have fared much better.

Beside him, The Beast trod seamlessly across the glacial path, clad only in black breeches and his defining claret cape once again.

Yuuri couldn't help but watch as The Beast strode along the path beside him. His movements were so _smooth_ , so _elegant_ ; He passed over the shifting snow without a trace. Not one brittle ‘crunch’ of distressed ice cracking beneath his paws, not one soft footprint left behind to mark where he had passed.  

“Yuuri? Is something the matter?”

Yuuri raised his head, suddenly aware he had lapsed into a daze again; mesmerized by the motions of his companion. He had lagged behind, falling into step behind The Beast, scrutinizing the ground instead of enjoying of the gardens.

“Hm?” Yuuri blinked a few times in the bright afternoon light, “Ah . . . sorry,” he apologized sheepishly, “just . . . lost in thought”

The Beast tilted his head, reminiscent of a confused puppy.

“. . . May I inquire as to what has captivated your attention so? Anything I can assist with?”

“Umm . . .”

Would it be rude to ask?

“I was wondering something . . . about _you_ , actually . . .”

The words were shy; timid and reticent and soft.

The Beast blinked a few times, caught off-guard by the confession.

“Ah . . . of course, you may ask me anything you like,” The Beast replied quickly; regaining his composure.

Yuuri opened his mouth to speak, eyes wavering between The Beast and the snowy ground beneath their feet.

“You . . . don't leave footprints,” He said finally, “How . . . how is that possible? How are you doing that?”

The Beast’s eyebrows caved together in a confused “v”; he tilted his head downwards, investigating the snowy ground behind them.

He looked up once again; confusion still writ across his features.

“Huh . . . so I don’t” he conceded taciturnly.

“You . . . never noticed before?” Yuuri asked gently, if a bit skeptical.

“To be honest, I haven’t had much reason to leave the castle as of late,” The Beast explained, “I was . . . unaware of this phenomenon”

“But . . . you always walk like that,” Yuuri insisted.

The Beast raised a single eyebrow.

“I just mean,” Yuuri quickly backpedaled, “you always move so . . . _swiftly_? You never make any noise . . . you never leave any footprints . . . you never slip on the ice . . .”

The Beast glanced down at his clawed feet on the frosty path, “Well . . . I suppose it’s just a part of _this_ . . .” he gestured to himself with a sad sweeping motion, “. . . _what_ I am . . .”

Yuuri’s heart stopped; that’s not what he had meant!

“I think it’s amazing!” he blurted.

The Beast’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, “ . . . you do?”

“Yea . . .” Yuuri confirmed softly, “it’s incredible . . . honestly, I wish I was _half_ as graceful as you are,” he let out a nervous little chuckle.

The Beast smirked, “Yes, very graceful . . . considering the _claws_ and the _horns_ and the _fangs_?” he drawled sarcastically.

Yuuri was about to launch into another apology, when he noticed the sparkle in The Beast’s eye; the slight curl of his lip.

He was _teasing_ him; _teasing_ him!

The very idea!

Well, _two could play at that game_.

Yuuri looked innocently up at The Beast, “Oh, are those _fangs_? I hadn't noticed,” he replied with mock naiveté.

He quirked his lips into a matching smirk as he turned back down the path, leaving The Beast speechless in his wake.

Yuuri turned to look over his shoulder, grinning wickedly at his stunned host.

“. . . The horns are kind of hard to miss though!” he called brightly.

And then The Beast laughed.

It was a deep, rumbling thing, spontaneous and brief; dripping with honey and sunshine and liquid gold.

Yuuri chuckled quietly too; suddenly shy one more.

They continued on, side by side, through the frosty gardens; Yuuri enraptured by the stunning winter-kissed grounds all around him.

The two exchanged easy gibes as they made their way down snaking pathways lined with all manner of snowy shrubberies and glacial greenery; trees and vines and bushes and flowers arranged beautifully along the lane. And though each and every offshoot of each and every plant was encased in frost, none were dead. None were rotted or withered or brittle; they were still blooming, still flourishing, as if they were not stung by the frigid breath of winter, but merely glazed with diaphanous white glass. Every branch, every petal, every leaf, shimmered in the sunlight, their colours muted and incandescent, casting rainbows over the garden’s forever-more canvas of arctic ivory.

It was magnificent.

At length they passed by a glittering frozen stream and traversed over a slick stone bridge where Yuuri’s previously sure footing at last betrayed him. He jerked rapidly forward on the down slope, catching himself instinctively on a claret cape.

“Ah! Sorry!” He squeaked, as The Beast turned to see what had so suddenly rattled his side. Yuuri dropped the cape like a hot coal and slid forward again.

“So . . . now you’re putting my canine reflexes to the test?” The Beast quipped, reaching out a massive paw to steady the wobbling boy.

“Just  . . . ah . . . keeping you on your toes” Yuuri returned, trying not to blush as he scrambled for purchase on the steep, icy incline; hand flailing for the chilly railing.  

The Beast turned to him, expression deadpanned, “. . . I’m _always_ on my toes”

They both looked down to The Beast’s digitigrade feet; pads and claws planted firmly on the slippery slope.

Yuuri snorted, “. . . that was a _terrible_ joke!” he chastised jovially.

In response, The Beast merely smiled and extended his arm to Yuuri, who took it unsteadily; face flushing redder than his justacorps. 

Yuuri practically slid the rest of the way down the bridge, leaning most of his weight on The Beast for support.

Damn these fancy shoes . . .

“. . . Thank you,” Yuuri mumbled shyly, embarrassment creeping up his neck.

“My pleasure,” The Beast returned amiably.

Once they were safely off the arching bridge, they came to rest at a little pavilion which thankfully stood nearby.

It was small and simple compared to the rest of the castle, made of white painted wood with gold painted trim, frost-covered ivy crawling up the four corner posts. Though Yuuri supposed that perhaps the pavilion was not the main attraction here; for it stood just a few feet away from the entrance to a massive hedge maze.

The shrubberies towered a good ten feet high, all white and heaped with snow; the length of the maze running as far as he could see in either direction; a small, arched opening stood in the middle, just in front of the gazebo. Back to the south, Yuuri could see the castle in the distance through the trees of the garden through which they had just come. 

With a gesture, The Beast offered Yuuri a seat in the shade of the pavilion; a comfortable, cushioned hassock. It was covered in frost, like everything else, though the justacorps would be long enough to keep the chill off.

Yuuri released The Beast’s arm bashfully and sat.

Had he been holding it this whole time?

The Beast sat opposite him on another of the hassocks.

“Sorry again . . . for falling on you . . .” Yuuri mumbled quietly.

The Beast turned a fond eye on him, “Please, Yuuri . . . you have nothing to apologize for. It’s no trouble”

Yuuri could have sworn that he saw The Beast smile.

“Well, thank you again –”

Yuuri stopped short.

He didn’t know how to finish that sentence.

He had been about to say “Well, thank you again, Beast,” to his _intense_ mortification.

Thank _mercy_ he had stopped himself.

Then Yuuri became even more humiliated as he realized that _he still didn’t know The Beasts’ name_.

He had asked for it once before . . . sort of . . . but The Beast hadn’t offered his name, just that sad, cryptic response about being the Master of a forgotten castle.

Yuuri and Phichit had called him “The Beast” between themselves in private, and Yuuri had referred to him as “The Master” when talking to Christophe, but . . . really now, how long could that go on? Now that he was living here? And especially now that he knew The Beast had once been human?

Guilt ricocheted between his ribs; he was a _horrible_ guest . . . and an even _worse_ friend.

Yuuri’s eyes went wide and pained. 

“Yuuri?” The Beast’s voice rang out next to him, gentle and concerned, “Yuuri, are you alright? Is it too cold . . ?”

“No, no!” Yuuri stammered, “it’s fine! I’m fine! It’s . . . it’s beautiful out here! I just . . .” he tried to quell his racing thoughts, put them in order long enough to figure out a way to come at this tactfully.

He paused, exhaling a visible breath, slipping his hands into the muff once more, “It’s just that . . . I’ve only now realized that I don’t know what to call you”.

He deflated under the admission; but the truth seemed the best, if only, option.

The Beast perked up a bit, his lupine ears flicking absently, “Oh, is that all?” he asked lightly, “You may address me however you please, Yuuri. Given the circumstances . . .”

“Ah . . . thank you . . .” Yuuri replied delicately, “but, what I mean is . . . I’m afraid I don't know your _name_ . . .”

The Beast’s eyes widened in realization, “Oh . . .”

“I’m so sorry!” Yuuri apologized immediately, “I should have asked sooner!”

“No! The faux pas rests firmly at my feet!” The Beast objected, “I should have offered it upon you arrival! I should not have assumed – ”

“Or, just let me know how you would prefer to be addressed, that’s fine too! You don't have to tell me your name if you don't want to!” Yuuri babbled, “Ah, ‘Monsieur’ . . . or maybe, ‘My Lord’? Or . . . what was it Georgi said? Gospodin?”

 He was rambling now, The Beast gaping at him, expression unreadable; Yuuri flushed, he knew he was making a fool of himself.

“Ah . . . or, or I know Chris usually just calls you _Master_ , so . . . I could as well, if you like. I don't mind . . .”

“NO!” The Beast yelped quickly. He looked slightly like he was having a heart attack; like he was about to choke on his own tongue.

Yuuri bit his lip repentantly; he wasn't entirely sure what he had said wrong now, but judging from The Beast’s expression, he was certain he had _really_ put his foot in his mouth this time.

But it was just so hard to know what would upset his companion; offering to repay a kindness and using proper titles didn't offend most people.

After a moment, The Beast seemed to come back to himself, “I mean . . . no, thank you, that won’t be necessary, Yuuri,” he took a deep breath before continuing, “Christophe is a dear friend, but also my employee, whereas you are a guest. Please, I could not ask you to use such a title for myself. That goes for ‘My Lord’, ‘Moy Gospodin’ and other such honorifics as well, if you would be so kind,” he faced Yuuri again with a relaxed smile.

Yuuri’s anxiety ebbed, now that The Beast had calmed, “Of course,” he smiled back, “. . . what should I call you then?” he inquired shyly.

The Beast replied with a smile: tender and full of warmth, “My name is Viktor”

“Viktor,” Yuuri repeated, smiling in return. After a moment, he nodded, “It suits you,”

“Oh?” Viktor challenged, “Is Viktor a good name for a Beast?”

He laughed once more at Yuuri’s scandalized face.

Once he realized he was only being teased again, Yuuri laughed too, “I _meant_ it’s _regal_ and _distinguished_ ,” he objected through his snickers, “in fact, I think it’s quite a _handsome_ name! _This_ is what I get for trying to be nice . . . ”

Their laughter echoed over the icy landscape, ringing out boisterously through the frosty foliage of the winter garden.

Yuuri wasn't certain if it was the winter sun or the heavy justacorps or the way that Viktor laughed; but in that moment, the world felt just a little bit warmer.

 

*****

 

Phichit hobbled down the cobbled village streets, leaning heavily on his crutches; determination etched onto his face.

He wasn't sure exactly _how_ he was going to pull this off, but Yuuri was counting on him . . . he would just have to find a way.

He passed through a little iron gate, standing open in the town square; before him laid the Town Hall, and just off to the side was the gaol, his true target.

For today he would face his greatest adversary; Guard Captain Nishigori.

Alright, so maybe that was a _little_ dramatic; the Captain was a good man, fair and competent and actually very amiable . . . he just maybe hadn’t _quite_ forgiven Phichit for an incident a couple years back involving a rope snare and two buckets of red paint.

But . . . the past was the past, right? How long could the man really hold a grudge?

On unsteady legs, Phichit shuffled across the small courtyard and up the stone steps of the large, official building.

He pushed the heavy, swinging doors open with a small, “oof”; stumbling past them into the gaol’s antechamber.

It was an austere stone room with a simple wooden desk at the far end; behind it, large double doors made of heavy oak led to the cells, which Phichit had thankfully never seen. Barred windows on the north and south walls let in the lazy afternoon light, and simple wooden benches lined the room; some with shackles attached to them, some without.

There was a barracks on the second floor, which remained mostly unused; and an armory in the basement, in much the same state. The Village was a peaceful place, and so the gaol didn't see much use; just the rare passing thief or rowdy brawler or unruly drunkard.

And there, sitting at the wooden desk, as usual, was Guard Captain Nishigori; a great big bear of a man with short hair and a stern expression. He was a laid-back, good-natured man who liked to joke around and offered his friendship freely . . . until one gave him a reason not to.

“Takeshi!” Phichit greeted with a bright smile. He could do this. He could _do_ this.

Captain Nishigori looked up with a smile; it vanished the instant he recognized Phichit.

“Captain!” Phichit corrected instantly, “Captain Nishigori. Guard Captain Nishigori Takeshi . . . “

Nishigori sighed, “Yes . . . what I can help you with, Phichit?” he asked politely.

“Oh!” Phichit brightened, hobbling closer to the desk, “Not _me_ . . . I’m doing something for the Lord Maire, actually . . .”

That _technically_ wasn't true . . . but Nishigori didn't need to know that.

It was all part of the brilliant scheme that he and Minako had concocted to bring Yuuri home.

Phichit had returned yesterday afternoon no worse for wear; missing Yuuri terribly, worried sick and wanting to see him again more than anything in the world.

He had spent the whole journey back thinking of ways he might help his brother and The Beast. It was a _long_ trip, considering how slowly he had to go due to his injuries, but at least it had given him a lot of time to think.

When he had first recounted the incredible tale to Minako, she had refused to believe him; had even offered to take him to a doctor to have his head examined. He didn't blame her; beasts and castles and magic? It still sounded like nonsense, even to him, and he had _seen it all_ with his own two eyes.

Luckily for him, the wolf bite was real enough, and like everything else in the castle, his bandages had been ridiculously extravagant. The cloth was clean, simple cotton, but it had been fastened with a golden pin, embellished with a little pearl clasp.

That one expensive little bauble had been enough to convince Minako that he was telling the truth, and then suddenly she . . . changed. Her whole countenance shifted from incredulity to wonder as question after question tumbled from her lips; how long had the castle been cursed? Who was the master there, what was his name? How did the spell work, how could it make people just . . . forget?

Phichit had just shrugged sadly, telling her that those were exactly the things he and Yuuri were trying to figure out.

Minako had immediately pledged to help them, being the good friend that she was. Although, Phichit expected she also may have just been excited about the prospect of being invited to the castle one day; he knew how much she missed court, and the idea of visiting any castle, even an enchanted one, seemed to delight her to no end. 

And so began their scheming to uncover the true identity of the castle and The Beast who ruled there.

Phichit had showed her the map; he had marked the fork as promised, and from there, used his cartography tools to plot out where exactly the castle lay. Then he had built himself some crutches. Step one complete.

Step two had been Minako’s suggestion; tax records.

Anyone who lived in a castle surely would have been collecting taxes, especially from a village so close, and there were _always_ records of such things; _multiple records_ going back _decades_.

At present, their own taxes went to The Capitol far to the North East. If they could find where else the taxes had gone _before that_ . . .

The only problem was that the tax records were in the Town Hall, under lock and key.

And the _one person_ they knew who _had those keys_ just so happened to be . . .

“You see, Captain Nishigori,” Phichit rambled, “I received this letter from Lord Maire Marchand. The Village centennial is coming up at the end of next year, and he asked that Minako, Yuuri and I put together a sort of . . . tribute . . . to present during the celebrations . . . local histories, family trees, that sort of thing . . . he asked that we start now, so that we can be sure to do a very _thorough_ job . . . ”

He could do this . . . he could _do_ this . . .

“So, I was hoping . . . that I could borrow your keys? Just for a moment, to get into the records room?”

Lies, lies and more lies; but hopefully all believable ones.

The Lord Maire of their little town, Philippe Marchand, was a doddering, 90-year-old bourgeoisie with an ailing memory and worse health, who had been appointed to the position in his youth, and now preferred to live in The City and oversee The Village through letters to Nishigori, the Chaplain, and other families of note, including and unfortunately not limited to people like _J.J._ and _Isabella_.  

However, word of Phichit’s inventing talent had reached the Lord Maire’s ears, and so Phichit had often been hired to fix things about town; he had repaired the broken water wheel and the squeaky Town Hall doors and replaced the rusty bucket in the communal well; all for a very generous fee, of course. Jobs from the Lord Maire often kept himself and Yuuri afloat on their small farm.

They _also_ provided Phichit with copies of the Lord Maire’s handwriting . . . which Minako had emulated in order to forge the letter which he handed to Nishigori now.

And yes, _technically_ this was illegal, but it’s not like they were using the records for fraud or thievery. It was research. They just needed some information; just one name, and then they would put everything back. No harm, no foul.

Besides, The Beast lived in a _castle_ ; surely he was of high enough rank that he could pardon them of any wrongdoing once the spell was broken, right?

Or they could just not get caught.

Captain Nishigori took the letter and studied it closely.

“Well . . . you know I would, Phichit,” he said apologetically, “But I’m afraid this letter doesn't have the Lord Maire’s seal on it . . . I can't in good conscience –”

Rats.

Phichit thought Nishigori might notice that; He and Minako had been able to replicate the writing and the signature, but not the wax seal on all of the Lord Maire’s official communications. Minako had said it wouldn't be a big deal; had told Phichit to take the chance anyway. Looks like that idea was a bust.

“Well, you know how the Lord Maire is . . .” Phichit chuckled nervously, “He’s . . . well he’s getting up there. I’m sure he just . . . forgot . . .”

“Sorry, Phichit . . . I’m sure you’re telling the truth, but I can't go against protocol,” Nishigori said firmly, “Look, why don't I write back to Lord Maire Marchand, tell him the situation, and get back to you? You can wait a few days, right? After all, you three have more than a year to –”

“NO!” Phichit yelped, his crutch clattering to the ground in his surprise.

Nishigori eyed Phichit warily.

“What happened to your leg?” the Captain asked suspiciously.

“Nothing. Gophers,” Phichit lied awkwardly, “. . . burrowing all over the farm, they are. It’s a mess. Stepped in a hole. Twisted my ankle. Don't worry about it! I’m fine!”

Nishigori sighed once again, “Here, let me get that for you . . .” he stood slowly, rounded the desk, and plucked Phichit’s crutch from the ground with a stiff groan.

Phichit opened his mouth to thank the captain, when a cacophonous racket drew both their attentions to the door.

“ _YOU_ BROKE IT!”

“NO, _YOU_ BROKE IT!”

“I _DIDN’T_!”

“YOU _BOTH_ DID!”

“ _QUIET_! You _all broke it_ and _I don’t want to hear another word about it_!”

“. . . yes mom”

In the doorway stood Nishigori’s wife, Yuuko, and their triplet daughters, Axel, Lutz, and Loop. In the triplet’s hands they each held one fraction of a wooden doll; Axel had the head, Lutz the arms and torso, and Loop the two wayward legs.

Yuuko smiled brightly, her demeanour changing entirely when she spied Phichit and her husband, “Oh, hi Phichit! What a surprise! It’s so nice to see you!” She bustled over and gave him a great big hug.

Phichit didn't get along with many of the villagers, but he had to admit that he liked Yuuko; truth be told, _everyone_ liked Yuuko . . . even _Minako_ liked Yuuko . . . it was impossible not to. She was an absolute sweetheart, a beautiful person both inside and out

“Please, don't mind us,” Yuuko continued, still smiling “We just had to stop by because _someone_ forgot his lunch,” she held aloft a little basket covered in a checkered cloth for her husband.

Nishigori took it gratefully, with a sweet thank-you to his wife and a quick peck on her cheek.  

Meanwhile, the triplets were silently shoving one another; being _quiet_ like their mother had told them, but still fighting and making faces among themselves.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Nishigori reprimanded when he caught how his children were behaving, “what did you mother just tell you?”

“Sorry dad,” the triplets sighed in unison.

“Yes, your _daughters_ have gone and _broken_ their _new doll_ ,” Yuuko confessed, looking disapprovingly between her children.

“Already?” Nishigori exclaimed in disbelief, “but their birthday was only a week ago!”

“I know!” Yuuko sighed, exasperated. She turned to whisper silently to her husband, “I just don’t know what to do . . .”

Phichit looked from the stressed couple whispering between themselves, to the three little girls, who were now crying out and hitting one another with the pieces of their broken doll; his heart fluttering with sympathy.

“I can fix it!” Phichit hollered above the din.

The parents stopped whispering, the children stopped screaming.

“ _YOU CAN_?” The girls all squealed in unison.

“Oh . . . Phichit . . .” Yuuko said gently, “That’s so nice of you to offer, but I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid we can't afford to pay you,”

“The doll was pretty expensive,” Nishigori explained bluntly, “Lord Maire Marchand sent it to us from the city. The arms and legs move and everything . . . that’s why we only got one for the three of them,”

Phichit waved a dismissive hand, “Don't worry about it! I wouldn't _dream_ of charging you to fix your girls’ birthday present” he insisted, “besides . . . I love tinkering with these kinds of things . . . is it alright if I just take a look?”

“Thank you Phichit! Thank you, so, so much!” Yuuko gasped, “Girls, give the doll to Monsieur Chulanont,”

Axel, Lutz and Loop handed over the broken bits of their doll. Phichit leaned against the desk, turning the pieces over in his hand.

The doll was finely crafted, made of light, polished wood, and painted with lacquer. He looked to the sockets and the ends of each of the limbs . . .

Ha! Ball joints. He knew it; child’s play.

He swiftly and carefully popped all the parts back into place, giving each a quick swivel to make sure they still rotated as they were supposed to. Luckily the girls had only pulled the pieces out of place, and not actually damaged anything. _That_ would have taken some actual _fixing_. But this? This was _nothing_.

“There, all done!” he smiled triumphantly, handing the doll back to the girls.

They gazed at him with wide eyes, “Thank you Monsieur Chulanont!” they gasped in synchronous delight.

“Hey, my pleasure!” Phichit chirped, still smiling, “Just remember, she’s a little bit delicate . . . you don’t want to pull too hard on those limbs again, okay?”

“Yes, sir!” The triplets promised, before turning back to play with their newly repaired toy.

Yuuko hugged him tightly again, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she beamed, “we really appreciate this Phichit,”

Phichit felt himself starting to blush, “Oh . . . it was nothing, really. The limbs just popped out of place . . . if it happens again, all you have to do is snap them back in. Or you can just bring it to me. I don’t mind”

Yuuko released him at last, thanking him once again. Then she and the girls were off, leaving him alone once more with the Guard Captain.

Nishigori looked Phichit over with a scrutinizing eye; then he smiled.

“So . . . about those records . . . I _suppose_ it would be alright if I gave you the keys . . . _but just this once_.”  

Phichit thanked Nishigori profusely, took the keys, collected the records he needed and was back out on the cobbled streets in no time.

Things were finally looking up!

Or so he thought.

“Well, well, well . . . if it isn’t Phichit Chulanont!” J.J.’s voice rang out unmistakably behind him.

Damn. So close.

“Well, well, well . . . if it isn’t Monsieur Connard” Phichit shot back, hobbling away as fast as he could, records still in hand.

J.J. laughed, “No, no, Phichit! It’s me, J.J.! J.J. Leroy!” he guffawed, easily catching up to the limping inventor.

“Ahh, yes . . . how could I forget the man who’s been stalking my brother?” Phichit bit out sarcastically.

 J.J. deflated ever so slightly, “Look, I know we haven’t gotten off to a good start, you and I . . . but I’d like to change that, if you’d let me”

“Why? Are you dying?” Phichit asked hopefully, “Making amends before you shuffle off this mortal coil?”

“Okay, okay . . .” J.J. conceded with a tight laugh, “I guess I deserve that . . . but really, Phichit, I’ve _changed_. I just want to show you what a good guy I am now! Is your leg hurt? Can I carry those papers for you?”

Phichit stopped walking as understanding struck him.

He nearly laughed out loud.

Oh _mercy_. How _stupid_ did J.J. think he was?

Phichit smirked, “Oh . . . _now_ I see what you’re trying to do” he purred, “It won’t work, J.J.”

“What? I’m . . . I’m not _doing_ anything!” J.J. objected with a nervous laugh.

“Yes you are,” Phichit countered victoriously, “You’re trying to get me to like you . . . so that I’ll help convince Yuuri to marry you,” He looked J.J. dead in the eye, “I bet you were even going to ask for my _blessing_ before you tried proposing to him again, right? _Classic_!”

Phichit snorted, shook his head, and kept wobbling down the cobbled streets, leaving J.J. dumbfounded behind him.

He felt like maybe he should have been nicer, but he figured that after the way J.J. had been treating Yuuri, the brute deserved it.

Besides, Yuuri was gone . . .

And wasn't it better to be upfront about J.J.’s chances with him? This marriage was _never going to happen_ . . . and _maybe_ if they all said that _often_ enough and _loudly_ enough and _clearly_ enough, J.J. would finally get it through his thick skull.

Besides, Phichit and Minako couldn't afford to have J.J. snooping around; it was too dangerous. Sure Minako had understood the situation . . . eventually; but how would the rest of the villagers feel about living less than four leagues from a terrifying looking beast?

Phichit assumed the reaction would fall somewhere between ‘not very pleased’ and ‘outright murderous’; and he was not keen to find out.

No, they had to keep this quiet; which shouldn’t be that hard, to be honest. He wasn't exactly ‘popular’ . . . Yuuri was really the only one he had, besides Minako. And even she had only become his friend through Yuuri in the first place.

Phichit knew what everyone else in town said about him; his brother wasn't the only one with a _reputation_ . . . though sadly, Phichit’s own wasn't quite as flattering.  

But he had to admit, “The Mad Tinker” did have a nice ring to it; sure, it was no “Mysterious Playboy” . . . but there were worse things one could be called.

And so, Phichit hobbled out of town, one arm wrapped over his crutch, the other around a thick set of records; his face set in grim determination.

The Mad Tinker had work to do.

 

*****

 

“And . . . what did you say this was called again?” Nikolai watched, fascinated, as Yuuri’s hands flew over the prep table.

Yuuri smiled wide, “Katsudon!”

Nikolai hummed in response, turning his attention back to the ingredients Yuuri had set out before them; rice, pork cutlets, eggs, breadcrumbs, and assorted veggies, spices and sauces.

Something sharp nudged Viktor’s side; Christophe winked up at him from a countertop.

“And he _cooks_ too!” The candelabrum cooed salaciously.

Viktor rolled his eyes.

As he and Yuuri had made their way back in from the gardens that afternoon, Viktor had once again offered to have Yuuri’s favourite meal served for dinner; and when Viktor had been forced to admit that he had never even heard of katsudon, let alone _tried_ it, Yuuri had simply offered to make it himself. Assuming it was alright with the kitchen staff, of course.

Nikolai was more than happy to let Yuuri take change of the kitchen, in exchange for the recipe; and though Viktor was excited to learn more about Yuuri and share his favourite meal with him, he had to admit that he was just a _little_ dismayed that Yuuri was going to end up making his own romantic dinner . . .

Viktor sighed. Why couldn't things ever go right?

He had almost blown it _again_ this afternoon in the garden.

How could he have been so foolish? He hadn't even _considered_ the possibility that Yuuri might not know his _name_.

Viktor had been a Prince after all, before the spell, that is; and part of being a Prince was being recognized. Introductions were merely a formality; a courtesy, because _everyone_ already knew who he was. Even people he had never met before in his life knew him by name . . . that’s just how it always had been.  

But things were different now; he was no longer a Prince, no longer human, even.

He couldn't even say for certain how much time had passed in the world beyond his castle. Perhaps it had been centuries; the name “Viktor Nikiforov” forever lost to the sands of time.

He had been arrogant. He had been conceited.

And he had almost passed out entirely when Yuuri had turned to him with those big, innocent brown eyes and offered to call him ‘ _Master_ ’ . . .

Oh _mercy_ . . . even just _thinking about it_ was wreaking havoc on his conscience.

 “Yuuri! You cook? That’s incredible!” Sara chirped from the prep table

“I can't cook at all!” Mila laughed, “I tried to make toast once and burned it black,”

“Yea, we remember, the kitchen reeked for weeks,” Yuri huffed.

“The whole castle reeked for weeks,” Otabek corrected.  

“Arf, arf, arf!”

“Makkachin, down!” Masumi hollered from the counter beside Chris, “You may not be a slobbery pooch anymore, but that doesn't change the rule about jumping up on the counters!”

And on top of making his own dinner, Yuuri’s smiling presence had once again drawn a crowd of castle staff to his side, like wayward ships to a shining lighthouse; reducing the kitchen to sweet, wonderful, chaos.

“So where did you learn this recipe?” Nikolai inquired intently.

“Ah, my mom used to make it,” Yuuri answered brightly, “It’s my favourite, so she would usually make it for my birthday, or when I had done well in school . . .”

Mila and Sara let out simultaneous sighs of adoration. 

Yuri scoffed, “Well, I don’t know what this _katsudon_ is, but there’s _no way_ it’s better than Grandpa’s pirozhki!” he asserted, stomping down with a ‘clink’.

Over at the prep table the rowdy assembly continued to coo and holler and laugh.

They all looked so . . . happy.

They all _were_ so happy.

Viktor smiled.

A tug to his cape brought his attention downward.

Yakov.

“Vitya, there’s something you need to see,” his words were blunt and heavy.

Viktor’s chest constricted with worry; he looked to the others joking around at the prep table.

He wouldn't be missed for five minutes; he would be back for dinner.

He nodded to Yakov and they exited the kitchen, Viktor motioning to Chris to follow.

Yakov led then up to Viktor’s chambers.

Ah. So this was about The Rose, then.

Viktor’s Royale Suite was much like the Eastern Suite, though larger, coloured entirely in white and gold and with a few extra personal decorations; portraits of family, monogrammed sheets and towels . . .

. . . and a single red rose on a small iron side table, standing near the wide balcony.

It rested under a crystal case, which was usually draped with a heavy cover to keep out the fog and the chill; though it was mainly for Viktor’s own peace of mind, due to the fact that in this _particular_ instance, the fog and the chill came from _inside_ the case.

Now, however, the case and the cover had both been removed; the rose standing naked before them, hovering magically an inch or so above the table.

When last Viktor had checked, only three of the petals still had colour left; the rest had turned to ice. It was his own personal timer; his hourglass; his doomsday countdown.

And not a very accurate one at that; to his intense dissatisfaction.

Though he had tried to measure how long it took each petal and thorn to freeze, none seemed to go at the same rate. They all turned to ice in their own time; just as it pleased them to. Sometimes he would check the rose, only to discover that two or three or four petals had frozen all at once; maddeningly inconsistent.

He had a spell to break, no idea how to fulfill the terms, and no way to gauge his progress.

It was infuriating.

He closed his eyes and braced himself; how many more petals had he lost now? How much more time had slipped away?

“Vitya . . . _look_ ,” Yakov insisted breathlessly.

He sounded . . . awestruck?

Viktor opened his eyes and forced himself to examine the rose.

Where before there had only been three red petals among a field of icy husks . . . now there were four.

Four red petals.

Four. Red. Petals.

“How did this happen?” Viktor asked breathlessly.

“It must be because Yuuri is here,” Chris reasoned.

Yakov waved him off, “We can't say for certain . . . but . . . Vitya . . . I think . . . _I think The Rose is thawing_ ,”

The three looked to one another wordlessly, then back to the rose and its four coloured petals.

“Does this mean I have more time?” Viktor asked cautiously; his mind reeling.

“What did the Enchantress say?” Yakov asked brusquely.

Viktor swallowed hard, “If you can learn to love another, and earn their love in return before the rose turns to solid ice, then the spell will be broken . . . if not . . . you will be doomed to remain a beast for all time,” he recited.

Those words had haunted him for so long he had memorized them. He had written them down, researched them, poured over every possible meaning trying to figure a way out of his hopeless curse.

He never found one.

“. . . then . . . you must have more time,” Chris suggested slowly, “. . . as long as The Rose isn’t solid ice . . . you still have time . . . so the more it thaws . . . the more time you have?”

Viktor nodded; that made sense, he supposed.

“Don't get careless, Vitya,” Yakov cautioned, “We’ve seen petals freeze two or three at a time . . . you may still be in danger yet,”

Viktor nodded numbly once again; that _also_ made sense.

“But . . . this _is_ good news,” Yakov conceded after a moment, “Now we know that it _can_ thaw . . . that the possibility exists. Things aren’t as hopeless as we thought, Vitya,”

Viktor had never heard the clock’s voice so soft before.

“What do you think would happen if . . . if it unfroze entirely?” Chris asked quietly, “Do you think the spell would be broken?”

Viktor didn't answer; he didn't know.

He had always wondered what the Enchantresses had meant by ‘learn to love another, and earn their love in return’; how was he supposed to do that? And once he had, how was he supposed to prove it to her? With a kiss? With a confession of love? With a marriage?

Perhaps Chris was on to something . . .

“Who can say?’ Yakov replied solemnly, “All we know for certain, is that now that Katsuki Yuuri is here, The Rose has begun to defrost . . . maybe that will break the spell, maybe it will just give Vitya more time . . . either way . . . I think we can assume that things are about to change around here . . . hopefully for the better,”

Viktor nodded, replacing the case and the cover, before the three turned and exited his chambers; agreeing to keep what they had seen a secret until they could be certain what it meant.  

They slipped back into the chaotic kitchen without a word.

It was just as they had left it; noisy, turbulent, and completely out of control.

Perfect.

Yuuri was toweling himself off; he was covered in breadcrumbs, something sticky-looking spilled all down his front. Sara was sitting up on one of his shoulders, Mila on the other, as Yuri yelled something at them from the prep table. Otabek watched the stove with Nikolai as Masumi scolded Makkachin, who was jumping up on Yuuri’s side; almost knocking him off balance.

Yuuri turned his head to see if he had reached all the mess; his face lighting up in a bright smile when he saw Viktor.

“There you are!” He chirped happily, “it’s almost ready!”

Viktor’s heart fluttered against his chest; it was pointless to deny it . . . he could already feel himself falling in love with Katsuki Yuuri.  

“I can't wait”. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Italian] Si, signore = Yes, Sir
> 
> [Russian] On milyy malen'kiy paren', ne tak li? = Он милый маленький парень, не так ли? = He's a cute little guy, isn't he?
> 
> [Russian] YA ub'yu tebya, Mila! = Я убью тебя Мила = I'll kill you, Mila! 
> 
> [Russian] Špana = шпана = Punk 
> 
> [Russian] Staraya ved'ma = старая ведьма = Old Witch/Old Hag/Old Lady 
> 
> [Russian] Moy Gospodin = мой господин = My Lord/My Liege 
> 
> [Swiss German] Mein Herzli = My Heart 
> 
> [Swiss German] Müsli = Mouse (Term of Endearment)
> 
> [Swiss German] Schäri = Darling 
> 
> [High German] Liebeskrank = Lovesick
> 
> [High German] Ich glaube, da ist jemand ein bisschen in Yuuri verknallt = I think someone has a little crush on Yuuri. 
> 
> [High German] Ich wusste es! = I knew it! 
> 
> [High German] Meine Güte! = My Goodness (General Exclamation of Surprise)
> 
> [French] Mon Petit Bichon = My Little Dog/My Little Maltese Dog/My Pet (Colloquial Term of Endearment)
> 
> [French] Bon Toutou = Good Doggie/Good Boy 
> 
> [French] Lord Maire = Lord Mayor (A Lord Mayor is a person of rank either appointed or elected to oversee one or several small towns or hamlets. Duties and powers vary over countries and time periods.)
> 
> [French] Monsieur Connard = Mr. Asshole (Colloquial) ("Connard" is a general insult, translating roughly to "asshole", so in this particular situation, Phichit has just added "Mr" in front of it to be witty.)


	5. The Letter, The Toast & The Incident in the Pantry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri and Viktor try to figure one another out. J.J. gets impatient. Phichit's Workshop becomes very crowded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE!!!
> 
> Chapter 5 is finally here! Thanks so much for reading and being patient on this update - to make up for the wait, this one is SUPER FLUFFY and hella long, haha. 
> 
> I've got a spiffy new icon now; I drew it myself (obviously, lol)! To see the full picture and more little extras, find me on Tumblr at silverscribblesuniverse.tumblr.com
> 
>  
> 
> TECHNICAL NOTES:
> 
> As always, if you see anything weird in my translations, let me know and I'll fix it!
> 
> FIND TRANSLATIONS IN THE 'END NOTES'
> 
> Also, I don't really dance, so if you see any weird dance terminology feel free to give me a shout and I'll fix that too. 
> 
>  
> 
> ***CONTENT WARNINGS FOR CHAPTER 3
> 
> LANGUAGE AND/OR VIOLENCE - Please be aware that there may be the occasional curse word/violent scene in this work.
> 
> This chapter has an f-bomb in it - so like, we're getting serious all up in here. 
> 
> ***A NOTE ABOUT NON-CON/DUB-CON:
> 
> This work will contain no explicit sexual content, though it will contain romantic content, such as kissing and/or implied sexual interest, like characters talking about being in love, innuendos, etc.
> 
> This Chapter contains A TON of sexual innuendo.
> 
> Also, as previously noted - this work involves themes regarding unwanted romantic/sexual advances and the rejection of personal autonomy. These themes can be a sensitive subject for many, so please proceed with caution.

In a small, but cozy, bedchamber below the kitchens, Masumi prepared to face another unpredictable day.  

Dawn hadn't yet broken, and Chris was still asleep, of course. Even when they had been human his lover had never been one for mornings; something about the harsh light of day, “so cruelly tearing them apart”.

He smiled to himself; dramatic as Chris could be, he did love that man so.

Masumi left the chamber quietly and made his way down the deserted servant’s corridor; all gray porous stone with small, high windows, half underground. He swept over the protruding ledges with laser-like focus; there was much to do, and no time to waste.

With Yuuri here now, things did seem to be looking up, of that there was no doubt.

Katsuki Yuuri was kind and thoughtful and friendly; a very welcome presence to be sure.

And Viktor was very obviously falling for the sweet boy, another good sign.

Still though . . .

It would take two to break the spell . . . and Yuuri still remained ignorant of the part they all hoped he would play in this pitiful mess.

There was no telling if Yuuri ever would, or even could, fall in love with Viktor . . . or if Viktor’s infatuation was strong enough to evolve into the true, unconditional love necessary to break the spell.

Masumi frowned; there was hope now, yes . . . but still no guarantees.

He cherished Viktor dearly; as a friend, as a colleague, even as his Prince and Monarch . . . but at the same time, Masumi had no illusions about his Master’s sub-par courting abilities.

The last few days had, frankly, been a disaster.  

Life in the castle, though now hopeful and bright, had devolved into a strange, chaotic sort of tango, as the staff had attempted to aid their Master in the wooing of Katsuki Yuuri.

What had started as a seemingly simple, straightforward objective had quickly deteriorated into a calamitous clashing of ideas; a perpetually painful push and pull, which more often than not left Viktor embarrassed, Yuuri confused, and the staff stretched and strung out; exhausted from making excuses and running interference as the clumsy dance plowed ever onward.

For Masumi, it was not just a matter of saving Viktor from himself, oh no; it was also a matter of saving face in front of Yuuri when the good intentions of other staff members had gone horribly awry.

Masumi could not be too chaffed about it, however; they all wanted the spell broken, and their hearts were in the right places . . . it’s just that they all had such different _approaches_ . . . each more disastrous than the last.

And so, when he was not coaching Viktor, or consoling Viktor, or listening to Viktor pine, or pretending to be Yuuri so Viktor could practice flirting, or explaining to Viktor why it _might_ not be the _best_ idea to fill Yuuri’s bedchamber with ten thousand roses as some great, romantic gesture, Masumi was running after Mila and Sara and making sure they didn't “spice up” any more of Viktor’s love notes, or he was throwing himself on the live grenade that was Yuri Plisetsky, who had decided that ordering Viktor and Yuuri to “just get married already” was the best way to go about things, or he was yanking his own beau back into line before Chris had the chance to initiate any more of his ill-conceived and extremely risqué seduction techniques.

For his part, Masumi was content to be patient and let things happen in their own time. It would be frustrating, agonizing even, but . . . what other choice did they have?

The others were afraid; he knew it. He was afraid too. They were running out of time, and if this romance didn't succeed . . .

But, they way Masumi saw it . . . this love was _guaranteed_ to fail, if they kept trying to force it the way they were now.

This wasn't an arranged marriage between nations; not a negotiation or a truce or a treaty. This was something far greater and much more powerful. The Enchantress would not be satisfied by anything less than true love. It would not be enough for Viktor to just declare his feelings and have Yuuri parrot the sentiment back . . . Viktor would have to learn what it meant to love; he would have to feel that powerful, all-encompassing, self-sacrificing devotion, and Yuuri would have to genuinely return that affection; truly, honestly, with his whole heart . . . and that was not something so easily accomplished.

It was not something they could just rush into; not something one could trick the other into, or flatter them into, or demand.

Viktor couldn't just pretend to be someone he was not in order to win Yuuri’s heart; he couldn't just shower the boy with gifts and praise and finery and hope to charm him with sweet nothings; the staff couldn't just push Yuuri to fall in love with their Master in order to break a spell.

Love was the greatest, most selfless thing Masumi knew . . . and asking such a thing of Yuuri? Forcing that responsibility on him? Fooling him, or flattering him into it? Masumi couldn't imagine any act more selfish than that.

If this was going to happen, it was going to happen right; and if it was going to happen right, it was going to take time.

If Viktor and Yuuri were going to fall in love, they were going to fall in love . . . and if they were not, they were not. That’s all there was to it.

So, Masumi would wait; and he would help; and he would hope.

In the end, that’s all he could do. He knew very well that love had a mind of its own; his own relationship was proof enough of that.

He swept past one of the many small windows, not bothering to open the casement; they had been frozen shut for years now, their glass panes all blurry and opaque with frost.

Something wet dampened his feathers as he fluttered by.

Masumi stopped, examining the ledge beneath him; he had painted a small trail of water behind him. 

Odd.

He turned, ever so slowly, and swept back towards the window.

The casement was white, heavily plastered in to the stone; the paint peeling and the wood warped over the years by the thick ice and snow.

And there, on the ledge just below, was a shallow pool of water.

Masumi looked from the pool to the window, before fumbling, armless, at the latch on the casement.

Surely it couldn't be . . .

The latch finally succumbed with a stiff “click”, tumbling from the rough wood; splintering off as it went.

The wood was . . . wet? Soaked through . . . like a flood . . .

Or a spring melt.

Masumi reached up a few tentative feathers and brushed gingerly at the frost on the window; it came away with ease, like dewy condensation . . . not the heavy, immobile sleet he had come to know.

Feathers trembling, Masumi pushed the window out at the bottom.

It gave away easily; a shower of chilly water dousing him as he pushed the small window open and propped it up on rusty hinges

Outside, the castle grounds were still white and slick; icy and cold . . .

. . . and wet.

Melting . . . it was . . . melting.

Not all of it; just some. Small and insignificant and almost imperceptible . . . but it was melting all the same.

An icicle shrank as it dripped frigid dew into a tiny puddle; a few blades of grass by the window shot up through the drifts, unmistakably green and alive.

A warm breeze blew in, rippling Masumi’s feathers and making him shiver.

Warm . . . it was . . . warm . . .

Masumi leapt from the ledge; scruffy and wet and disheveled, he raced back towards his bedchamber.

Chris was _not_ going to believe this!

 

 *****

 

Lazy morning sunlight lapped at the tiled floor as Yuuri silently slipped down the gilded corridor outside his bedchamber. It was early in the morning, before breakfast, and mercifully, no one else was up yet.

He had been living in the enchanted castle for nearly a week now, and he was starting to get a sense of where everything was, though he still had not seen the monolithic manor it in its entirety; but Christophe had assured him that while there were many more rooms, most were in disuse and would be of little interest.

So instead of touring further, Yuuri had spent most of his time exploring and enjoying the places he had already seen; whiling away his hours in the gardens or the library or the music room, always accompanied by Makkachin and some clique of castle staff. Sometimes he was invited to join Viktor for a morning walk or an afternoon tea or a fireside chat; and every night, without fail, the two would meet for a succulent dinner in the magnificent dining room. Yuuri was rarely left unattended and life was an endless procession of laughter and conversation.

It was wonderful; to be here, to be wanted, to be the center of attention . . . but, in its own way it was also . . . _exhausting_.

Yuuri was not used to having all eyes on him; in fact, that was one of the very things he was trying to get away from. It was different of course; being surrounded by friends, rather than rumors, and Yuuri did enjoy the company very much, but life in the castle did come with its own _unique_ set of quirks.

Nothing so off-putting that it made Yuuri re-consider his decision to stay, of course; just a few curious little oddities which often left him second guessing himself.    

For instance, it seemed like there was _always_ something going on . . . every little activity became an event; a quiet afternoon in the library turned into a literary inquisition, a reflective stroll through the courtyard became a miles-long parade. Dressing every morning was a pageant, dinner every night was a banquet . . . every minute of every day was a show, a celebration . . . and it was all just a little bit draining.

Between Viktor and the Staff, Yuuri almost never had any time to himself . . . he couldn't even be alone is his own room, with Georgi there; not that the wardrobe could help it, of course. It was just a bit _unsettling_ how closely supervised he was . . . in a way, it almost seemed _purposeful_. The anxious part of his mind fretted that perhaps his new friends did not trust him to be left to his own devices . . . and so, he had to constantly remind himself that he was welcome here, that the staff were just excited to have a new face about the castle, that they hadn't hosted company in a great long while and they wanted to be extra certain his needs were being met. They were _just being friendly_ . . . if maybe, a bit . . . _overzealous_?

Still, Yuuri was not used to being fawned over . . . and though he did revel in the company of his new friends, he had noticed that conversations could be . . . unusual.

Long bouts of silence were not uncommon, and somehow every discussion seemed to come back to Viktor and his many admirable qualities; not that Yuuri minded, or disagreed . . . it just seemed an odd topic to bring up with such force and frequency. Yuuri also found that though he was asked a great many questions, his own inquiries went largely unacknowledged, or he received such vague, cryptic answers that he might as well have been ignored. Certain topics would be dropped or changed abruptly, and new, completely unrelated subjects would be brought up out of the blue without any warning at all. Not to mention that flourishing conversations would die the instant he entered the room.

 Stranger still . . . for all that Yuuri had thought that he and Viktor had been getting along, it seemed like the staff were constantly forcing Viktor to be nicer to him; even going so far as to make excuses for them to be alone together.

 

“Sorry Yuuri, I can't take you to the Library at the moment . . . perhaps the Master can show you where it is!”

“Hey, Yuuri, you know who would LOVE to have tea alone with you in the sitting room right now? . . . The Master!”

“So, Yuuri . . . what’s your favourite colour again? Wouldn’t it be an amazing co-incidence if the Master just happened to be wearing that colour today? I mean . . . what are the chances? It would be like . . . fate! You should go find out what he’s wearing! No reason . . .”

 

Yuuri had no qualms about spending time with Viktor; quite the opposite, in fact. But Yuuri wanted to be a gracious guest, and he didn't want Viktor to feel obligated to spend time with him. Viktor was the Master of a castle after all . . . and enchanted or not, Yuuri assumed that he must be quite busy managing it. He didn't want to be a burden.

Yuuri knew he was probably reading too much into the situation . . . over thinking things and jumping to conclusions. He did that a lot.

But at the same time . . . Viktor was . . . Viktor had always been so kind to him. Yuuri didn't want to inconvenience him with his trivial chatter . . .   

About a week had passed, but Yuuri was still settling in and getting his bearings; he supposed there really wasn't anything to worry about . . . he would get used to these little quirks in time. He could handle the grand gestures and the constant company. Besides, Yuuri’s arrival would soon be old news . . . surely once all the excitement died down, he would have a bit more time to himself, right?

But . . . there were other things too . . . bigger things . . . stranger things; the weird letter, the unsettling toast, and of course . . . _the Incident in the Pantry_.

A couple days ago, Yuuri had run into Christophe in one of the corridors after dinner . . .

 

“Oh, Yuuri! Thank goodness you’re here! Could you do me a quick favour, mon chou? Up in the back of this pantry are some fresh sheets . . . You’re so tall, be a dear and grab those for me? Ah, Merci!”

Of course, after Yuuri had stepped into the pantry, the door had swung closed and locked behind him. Five minutes after that, Viktor had been tricked into the same pantry in a very similar fashion.

Fourteen awkward minutes later they were both rescued by a very frazzled Masumi; and while Yuuri had managed to laugh the whole thing off as a silly prank, he got the distinct impression that, at the end of it all, Chris was very lucky he still had his job . . . and his beau.

 

Yuuri hadn't minded the joke, honestly; sure, it had been a bit embarrassing making small talk, trapped in the pantry with Viktor . . . especially when he had to explain how he had gotten in there in the first place . . .

But what had been even more unsettling was Viktor’s reaction to the jest; the same as when Yuuri had offered to repay him for saving Phichit, the same as when he had offered to call him ‘Master’; that incredulous, choked expression, the one which lay somewhere between disgust and mortification, smothered by polite words and a mask of cordiality.

Had it really been so terrible for Viktor, to be locked in there with him? To be that close to him for so long?

Yuuri supposed it must have been, because after that, Viktor had become cold again; more formal, like when Yuuri had first met him.

Now, Yuuri could handle a little prank here and there; he had come to the conclusion that it was just a bit of harmless fun, sparked by the novelty of having someone new around. What he couldn't make peace with, however, was that fact that every little thing he did seemed to rattle his host.

Which was a shame, really; Yuuri was actually becoming quite fond of Viktor . . . the small, genuine parts of Viktor which he had been allowed to see, that is.

Viktor was . . . admirable, obviously; regal and commanding, the Master of a Castle . . . but he was also interesting and thoughtful and witty, in a sarcastic sort of way . . . graceful, gentle, almost ethereal . . . and yet surprisingly easy to talk to . . .

It was enough to pique Yuuri’s interest; his imagination running wild. He couldn't help but wonder what other surprises Viktor might be concealing behind that cordial mask.

Yuuri hadn't stopped thinking about Viktor; not since their first stroll through the gardens together. Something about him was just so . . . fascinating. Perhaps it was merely the mystery of the spell which had captured Yuuri’s attention . . . or maybe it was the unexpected rush of warmth behind Viktor’s glacial facade. Viktor was an enigma, that much was certain; stern, yet welcoming . . . taciturn, yet charming . . . cold, yet kind. He was as elusive as he was enthralling, and always left Yuuri wanting more.

Though he would never admit it, Yuuri often caught himself fantasizing about what type of person Viktor might have been before the spell . . . had he been an intellectual, like Phichit? Or a gentleman; a blue-blood lush, like Minako? Had he once been a joker; full of laughter and life? Or had he always been so courtly and severe?

Yuuri often wondered if it was the devastation of the spell which had made Viktor so reclusive . . . or was stoicism just a part of his nature?

He supposed he would never know. Much to Yuuri’s dismay, he also hadn't gotten any closer to figuring out how to help Viktor break the spell . . . and _that_ didn't seem likely to change any time soon.

Despite his best efforts to focus his attention elsewhere, Yuuri’s inquisitive mind never strayed far from thoughts of his mysterious host; and now that his ardent curiosity had raced headlong into the labyrinth of Viktor, there would be no relief until he reached the center.

But no matter how much the staff sang Viktor’s praises, they never answered Yuuri’s questions; and no matter how much time they spent together, Viktor’s reticent and refined demeanor remained, as always, a heavy barrier between them.

Yuuri was about halfway down the corridor now; the entrance to his own chamber still just barely in sight.

Between the all the unpredictable interactions and his vexing ruminations, life in the castle was just a bit overwhelming at times; and even though Yuuri adored Viktor and the staff and his wonderful new home, he desperately needed a break from the constant supervision, the baffling conversations, the contrived tête-à-têtes, the embarrassing pranks, the capricious moods of his taciturn host, and his own anxious, nagging thoughts.

And so, he had devised a plan to bring himself a little peace and quiet.   

He silently slid up to one of the various sets of identical double-doors, and gently pressed down on a golden handle. He leaned his weight, ever so slightly, onto the towering white timber and cautiously slipped into the wide room beyond.

He lifted his arms above his head, yawning languidly as he wandered into the abandoned sitting room.

It was one of the suites which had fallen into disuse; an old drawing room by the looks of it. It had a large window, wooden floor, and scant furniture; just a few worn couches and a behemoth felt-topped desk, all covered in white cloth, which Yuuri had previously pushed to one side of the room.

The wide picture window ran the length of the wall opposite the door, letting in the waxing sunrise. Yuuri contemplated drawing the curtains, but decided against it; no one would see him this high up, and besides . . . the sunlight felt warm and lovely on his skin. He wore only a light shirt and breeches; barefoot, with no hose or waistcoat. His glasses he carefully folded, and placed on top of the covered desk.

After a quick turn about the room, Yuuri settled in and began his regular stretches; a small, relaxed smile on his face.

He had never had a proper dance studio before.

The clearing in the woods had served him well enough over the years, but before he was able to use it, he would always have to make certain that the ground was even and clear; no gopher holes or debris or other hazards to impede his movements. Not to mention that it was completely unsalvageable in the winter. When he practiced with Minako they had to make do with her small wooden cellar, which again, was workable, but not entirely ideal.

But this . . . this was perfect. The smooth wooden floor was clean, open and inviting, practically begging him to bring it to life; all the space he needed and more.

Excitement bubbled in Yuuri’s chest; his tight muscles ached in protest as he stretched them out after their week-long hiatus. It was absolute bliss.

Soon, Yuuri would lose himself to the movement; his body would whirl and his mind would still, and for a few glorious hours he could focus solely on his art; not ruminate about unhelpful conversations or unbreakable spells or unreadable Viktor.

No, there would be only the pounding of his heart and the pumping of his blood; the billowing of his sleeves and the whipping of his hair. He would feel nothing; no disquiet, no disappointment, no doubt . . . just the pleasurable press of his feet on the floor and the delicate drag of the air across his cheeks.

There would be no music of course; but Yuuri didn't need it. He could hear it in his head, or count the beats aloud, or hum a melody of his own choosing, or just wrap himself up in the silence.  

After some time, Yuuri completed his stretches; his body now warm and limber, he was ready to dance.

And _dance_ he would; _whenever_ he wanted, _however_ he wanted, _as much_ as he wanted, _as long_ as he wanted . . . unencumbered, uninhibited and uninterrupted.

And _this time_ , there would be no secret audience; no unwanted suitors spying on him through the trees, no red-breasted hunters setting him in their sights.

Yuuri stood tall, settled into first position and centered himself with a deep breath, before letting inspiration take the lead and whisk him away.  

 

*****

 

Ex-Prince Viktor Nikiforov was not happy.

No, that was an understatement.

Ex-Prince Viktor Nikiforov was _miserable_.

_Before_ he had been turned into a Beast, he _never_ would have _said_ such a thing, because he _never_ would have _felt_ such a thing, because he had made a point of _not_ letting his _emotions_ interfere with his _duties_.

But _now_ that he _had_ been turned into a Beast, it seemed he did nothing but _feel things_ , which was a very _useless skill_ indeed, because _now_ that he did _feel things_ , it seemed that all he ever _felt_ was _misery_ , which, of all the emotions he could name, was not only the _least pleasant_ , but the _least productive_ as well.  

Wasn't love supposed to be a happy thing? Wasn't that what all the ballads promised? Wasn't that the point of marriage?

If love was supposed to be a happy thing, then why was wooing Katsuki Yuuri making him so damn miserable?

Viktor scaled the grand staircase gingerly; trying to appear casual in his movements.

As he stepped, he noted the silence; it seemed Yuuri had been correct. Viktor did not, in fact, make any noise at all as he moved through the castle.   

Thinking of Yuuri made him smile.

And then he was immediately _miserable_ all over again.

Viktor sighed, turning and slowly descending the staircase. He did not make it to the ground floor, but slumped down on the landing; melting into a crestfallen silver puddle.

It was hopeless; utterly, utterly hopeless.

There was no use denying it, Viktor was falling for the sweet, beautiful Katsuki Yuuri . . . and _somehow_ , for _some reason_ , Yuuri was _right here_ , _right now_ , _living in his castle_ , with _no intention of leaving_ , literally _in the palm of his hand_ , just _waiting_ for Viktor to _sweep him off his feet_ so they could _break the spell_ and live _happily ever after_ . . .

. . . and somehow Viktor just kept fucking it up.

The last few days had been a _disaster_.

Viktor, relying on the advice of his staff, had attempted, several times, to gain Yuuri’s favour.

It had not gone well.

There was an attempt at a love note, which had been revised by Mila and Sara to the point of illegibility. The phrase, “You fill my days with sunlight” had ended up looking like, “You killed my daughter’s delight” . . . and _that_ was one of the _better_ lines.

Luckily, Masumi had claimed authorship of the note and convinced Yuuri that it was part of a poem he was working on; a terrible, _terrible_ , poem.

Then, there was the ‘Plisetsky Approach’; Yuri’s rather blunt take on courtship.

At dinner one night, Viktor had been, for once, quite successfully flirting with Yuuri . . . except for the fact that _Yuuri_ had not seemed to _realize_ that he was being flirted _with_. So, in a bout of impatience, the angry little teacup had blurted out, “Hey, Katsudon! Viktor’s in love with you, get it? Just get married already!”

Mortified, Viktor had frozen, with no idea what to say.

Luckily, Masumi had quickly interjected with a laugh and a lie; claiming that the phrase was a loose, colloquial translation of an old northern idiom; a toast in fact! It didn't really mean that Viktor was “in love” or that he literally “wanted to marry Yuuri” . . .  it just meant . . . that . . . Yuuri was a cherished addition to the household . . . like new family gained through wedlock . . . yea . . . that’s it . . .

So, in order to keep up the charade, they had continued to toast to one another with the phrase, “Viktor’s in love with you – Just get married already!” for the rest of the night . . . and at every subsequent meal thereafter.

Then, there was _the_ _Incident in the Pantry_. Chris had meant well, sure . . . and maybe if Viktor had not been cursed with _claws_ and _fangs_ and _dog-breath_ , the situation might have played out _differently_. However, since he was a _Beast_ , and not a _human_ , with human _lips_ and human _hands_ and human . . . _things_ . . . Viktor spent those fourteen minutes desperately contorting himself away from the poor boy in an attempt to respectfully keep his furry paws to himself.

Meanwhile, Yuuri had been trying to lift the mood with polite conversation, but instead, ended up accidentally spouting off a series of unintentional innuendos.

“Ah . . . wow . . . it’s such a tight squeeze . . .”

“Umm . . . maybe if we try a different position? I can get on my knees . . .”

“Well, this is one heck of a mess . . . I sure hope nobody else comes in here . . .”

At that point, it was a miracle Viktor could even remember his own name.

Luckily, Masumi had found them in good time, and Viktor had been able to hold himself together; he was a _gentleman_ , after all.

Sure, Yuuri stirred up feelings in Viktor . . . all kinds of _feelings_ . . . but he was not about to spring _certain impulses_ on Yuuri out of the blue, and _certainly not_ before he had made his romantic intentions clear, _especially_ if those feelings were not reciprocated . . . and _definitely_ not while he still had _fuzzy ears_ and a _bushy tail_.

And so, in the wake of that _particular incident_ , Viktor made certain to keep his distance, going to great lengths to remain especially civil, well-mannered and gracious towards Yuuri; perhaps even _painfully_ so . . . but it seemed to him the only appropriate measure to take.  

Viktor sighed, his muzzle cupped in both enormous paws, elbows on his knees.

Why couldn't he ever do anything right?

Everybody else seemed to know what to do . . . everybody else at least had an _idea_ of what to do, favorable or not . . . so what was wrong with _him_?

Although, now that he thought about it . . . it was Masumi who had actually been the most helpful during this whole ordeal; prim, proper, soft-spoken Masumi.

That was . . . _surprising_ . . . to say the least.

Not that Viktor had ever assumed Masumi _incapable_ of ‘turning on the charm’, as it were . . . this was the man who had caught _Christophe Giacometti’s_ eye, after all. It’s just that when it came to affairs of the heart, Masumi wasn't exactly the _first_ person who came to mind.

Viktor recalled how rocky and reticent the beginnings of Masumi’s relationship with Christophe had been; honestly, Viktor had nearly had a _mutiny_ on his hands . . . a full-blown _civil war_ raging within his very own _kitchen_.  

But . . . in the end . . . they somehow had fallen in love; and they were _still_ together now, after all they had been through.  

Perhaps he had been too quick to dismiss the feather duster’s council.  

When Yuuri had first come to stay, the only advice Masumi had given Viktor was to ‘just be himself’ and ‘let nature run its course’ . . .

At the time, it had seemed too simple, too plain, too . . . boring; but Masumi hadn't steered him wrong yet . . . perhaps it was advice worth considering?

“Talk to Yuuri . . . spend some time together . . . get to know him!” Masumi had said, “Find out what you two have in common . . .”  

Viktor’s chest tightened reflexively; he couldn't just _talk_ to Yuuri . . . that sweet, wonderful boy deserved so much better than Viktor’s clumsy words and useless feelings. Yuuri deserved the world . . . and Viktor was just a poor, lonely Beast.

Viktor had once been the greatest Prince his kingdom had ever seen. Under his rule, the lands had flourished, relations had been peaceful and the economy had thrived. This very castle had once been the envy of the land; an architectural marvel, the perfect blend of artistry and innovation. He had been surrounded by wealth and beauty and luxury.

Were he still a Prince, Viktor would have enough gold and influence to get Yuuri anything his heart desired . . . anything.

Yuuri would have only but to name it, and it would be his.

Viktor’s heart sank; how could the words of a Beast ever compare to the promises of a Prince?

How could someone like him ever please someone like Yuuri? How were Viktor’s poor company and pretty words meant to win the beautiful boy’s affections? How did those compare to the gifts and riches and wonders that other, much worthier suitors could offer him, in the bright, brilliant world beyond the forgotten castle? How was Viktor supposed to make Yuuri happy in a place like this . . . with a face like his?

How dare he hope that Yuuri might one day offer him  his heart . . . when Viktor had nothing to give in return?

And there it was again; misery in its purest form.

Viktor let out an involuntary growl and rubbed at his temples; if Masumi had just let him fill Yuuri’s chamber with ten thousand roses _like he had wanted to in the first place_ , he wouldn't even _be_ in this situation!  

Eventually, he lifted his big, beastly head and sighed. One thing was certain; he hadn't accomplished anything by sitting here on the grand staircase pouting about it.

It seemed he had no choice; whether he had faith Masumi’s advice or not, the fact remained that words were all he had.

Time to go put them to use.

Viktor rose, steeling his resolve, and swept silently to Yuuri’s chamber. It was late in the morning; Yuuri would definitely be up by now . . . it wouldn't be too early to come calling, surely . . .

But Yuuri wasn't there. Viktor’s knocking was answered by a cry from Georgi, who informed him that Yuuri had already slipped out just after dawn.

Odd.

Viktor thanked the wardrobe and turned back into the corridor.

As he swept languidly down the hall, he noticed a door slightly ajar; one which led into an unused drawing room.

Viktor approached slowly. A flash of movement passed in front of the open gap; soft scuffling and heavy breathing emanated from inside. He cautiously pushed the great door open just a little bit wider to see . . .

And oh, the sight within was breathtaking, indeed.

It was Yuuri. He was . . . dancing . . .

That’s right. Yuuri was a dancer. Viktor knew that.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that; somewhere in the back of his mind . . . which seemed completely unable to function at the moment.

Viktor’s heart pounded, his breath hitched; Yuuri was absolutely stunning. His steps precise, his lines long and crisp and elegant, his transitions graceful; every movement so passionate, so purposeful . . . Viktor swore he could hear the music to which Yuuri danced, could read the story Yuuri wrote with his body.

It was the most beautiful routine that Viktor had ever seen; and he’d been to the City Ballet. He’d seen the most highly-praised professionals in the world perform with his very own eyes . . . but he had never seen anyone dance quite like _this_ before.

Right, watching . . . Yuuri didn't know he was watching.

He was intruding.

He was being rude; horribly rude! What was he _thinking_? He didn't have Yuuri’s permission to be here! He should leave; _immediately_.

Yes. He would leave _right this instant_. That would be the prudent thing to do.

He . . . he would leave . . . right . . . now . . .

 

*****

 

Yuuri’s heart beat dully against his ribs. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears; euphoria sang through his veins as he danced his way across the floor.

A turn, a jump, a step sequence, a spin, a cross; he let himself wander; he let himself experiment and play and practice. He let his impulses dictate the pace; starting one routine and dropping it for another mid-sequence, dancing his favourite choreography in reverse, blending styles together with reckless abandon, improvising entirely new pieces in the heat of the moment, following his own whims in a way he never had before.

There was no rush, no routine to learn, no Minako to impress; just a wide wooden floor as endless as his own imagination.  

The session had started out with more structure; with Yuuri trying to remember the sequence in which Minako would have him review his repertoire . . . but after a while it was becoming harder and harder to recollect, and eventually, the practice had devolved into its current state of chaos.

It wasn't perfect, not even close . . . but that wasn't the point; the point was to do something he loved, to regain some semblance of a routine, to carve out some normalcy in the chaos, to clear his head, to get some peace and quiet . . .

He had no idea how long he’d been at it now, which was entirely the point . . . but he was getting thirsty and sweating profusely and he was starting to ache and he didn't want to push himself too hard and chance an injury . . . especially considering that he was in bare feet; and although dancing ballet in bare feet was technically possible, and he’d stayed on demi pointe the entire time, lacking the proper shoes made the turns and slides and landings more difficult, and he didn't want to risk twisting or popping something that shouldn’t be twisted or popped.

Yuuri was losing steam; he could feel himself slowing down, cooling off . . .

He should end practice here . . . call it a day . . .

Well . . . maybe just _one more_ pirouette a la seconde . . . _then_ he would call it a day.

Yuuri stilled for only a moment, before launching into his final spin; heart plodding thickly in his chest, spacey grin looping over his face.

As he made his first pass, something caught his eye . . . by the door?

On his second pass he thought he saw a figure . . .

On his third pass, he was certain there was someone else in the room.

On his fourth pass he forgot to plié on his base leg.

There was no fifth pass.

Instead, there was a stumbling sequence of stomps, accompanied by a scandalized gasp and a shocked, “Ah! Vi – Viktor! What . . . what are you – ! I . . . didn't see you come in!” as Yuuri gracelessly fumbled out of the spin.

Yuuri caught his balance, but the world fell away; a sudden drop in the pit of his stomach, like suddenly sliding on ice, or missing a stair in the dark.

The scene hung horribly suspended in time.

Viktor’s face was pained; guilty and contrite.

“Yuuri! I’m so sorry! I didn't mean to - ! Forgive me, I shouldn’t have intruded . . . I’ll . . . I’ll leave you be at once!”

A jolt of alarm surged through Yuuri; electrifying his insides in a moment of panic.

“No, wait!” he barked, his words shattering the tableaux.

He didn’t know what had made him do it; Viktor’s apology? The anguish so clear in his voice? Or was Yuuri once again letting his curiosity get the better of him?

He was still on edge; exposed, and a bit embarrassed . . . but now the shock was ebbing and instinct urged him not to let the moment slip away.

He was trying to better understand his host’s fickle disposition after all . . . and since Viktor, the epitome of civility, did not seem to be the type to lurk in doorways unannounced, Yuuri couldn’t help but wonder what had gotten into him.

“I . . . sorry . . . you just startled me, is all,” Yuuri soothed, trying not to pant too crudely. His head swam with the sudden stop, his pulse nagging at his temples as sweat rolled down his brow. He quickly wiped a soft sleeve over his clammy face, praying he only _vaguely_ resembled a drowned rat.

He tried to keep friendly eye contact as he stumbled over to the desk to collect his glasses; instead managing only an awkward side-step and a couple shifty glances.

“Please, the apology is mine,” Viktor replied contritely, “I most sincerely beg your pardon for interrupting,”

Swiftly donning his glasses, Yuuri quickly looked back up to Viktor, only to discover deep shame adorning his beastly features; Yuuri’s heart sank.

No . . . he was losing him . . . he could see Viktor drifting away, cast out to sea, sentenced to exile on an island of remorse.  

That wouldn’t do at all!

Viktor was already so withdrawn, so far from Yuuri’s reach; this was the exact _opposite_ of what he wanted . . .

He couldn't let Viktor punish himself. Yes, he had _idled_ . . . waited and watched without announcing his presence . . . but he hadn’t _known_ Yuuri was in here; hadn't _known_ that he was dancing. Surely Viktor had no unscrupulous motives . . . surely . . . it was just an innocent mishap. At the very least, he could let Viktor explain . . .

“Ah . . . d-don’t worry about it, Viktor” Yuuri fumbled, attempting a casual smile, “It’s fine, really! No harm done . . .” but his gentle instance only seemed to push Viktor further away.

His host shrank back a bit from the door, as if to quit the room. “You are . . . too kind,” Viktor murmured, with a bow of his head.

And as Viktor receded, Yuuri quickly stepped forward.

“Is there . . . something you needed?” he prompted, almost desperately, “Were you . . . looking for me? I haven’t missed some commitment, have I?”

Yuuri knew there was no commitment he had missed; he had chosen this morning to sneak off specifically for that reason. His heart hammered in anticipation of Viktor’s answer.

His host looked back up now, not directly at Yuuri, but past him, out the window; unable to meet his eyes. His demeanor was cordial and reserved as ever, “No, not at all,” he replied.

For one gut-wrenching moment, Yuuri thought that might be it.

But then Viktor spoke again, his eyes lowering to the claws of his own mammoth feet, “I . . . thought I might invite you to join me for tea this afternoon. Assuming you had no prior engagements, of course,” he admitted quietly, “I . . . was coming to call on you when I saw this door ajar . . . I only meant to investigate the cause . . .”

The rest he could not articulate, the unsaid words hanging thickly between them; a chance discovery . . . a view without permission, a show without a ticket. The tension was palpable; another inescapable curse that Yuuri felt helpless to dispel.

He habitually worried his bottom lip between his teeth; automatically reaching out a comforting hand, before self-consciously clasping it back to the other in front of his chest.

So that was it. It was just an accident. Yuuri’s ribs ached sympathetically; he should say something . . . _anything_ . . . but what? Viktor wouldn’t accept absolution; Viktor wouldn’t even _look_ at him . . . 

Then, Viktor spoke once again, still soft and sore and sweet, “For what little it is worth . . . it was not my intention to intrude upon your privacy . . . I will not become distracted and forget myself so carelessly again . . . you have my word,” 

“Distracted?” The question plunged irreverently from Yuuri’s lips before he could stop it.

He hadn't meant to be so blunt, but Viktor’s choice of wording had caught him off guard. The “intruding” part, Yuuri could understand . . . but “distracted”? “Forget himself so carelessly”? What was that supposed to mean?

“I . . .” The word dragged from Viktor’s throat, long and uncertain. His mystic blue eyes widened almost imperceptibly; if Yuuri hadn't known any better, he might almost think Viktor was _nervous_ about something.

But this was _Viktor_. Viktor didn’t get _nervous;_ impossible.   

Yuuri looked back at his host intently; big brown eyes eager and shining. His head cocked quizzically to the side, eyebrows knit together; not an accusatory expression, just targeted and curious.

Viktor at last reached the end of his cadence, no closer to the end of his thought. He closed his eyes reflexively, and let out a little huff of defeat.

“Forgive me, Yuuri . . .” Viktor sighed; he sounded wrung out, stretched and strained and all tied up in knots, “The instant I realized that you were using the room for dance practice I should have gone . . . turned around and left you be . . .

Something about the way Viktor spoke was making Yuuri’s heart race again.

“. . . but . . .” Viktor paused, bracing himself for the confession to follow, “I was distracted . . . by how beautifully you were dancing,”

Oh.

OH.

Now it was Yuuri’s turn to sport wide, nervous eyes.

Viktor pressed on honorably, never once wavering; speaking softly, but dedicated to completing the task at hand, “Yuuri . . . I must confess . . . I’ve never seen anything more extraordinary in my life. You clearly have a tremendous amount of talent . . . and such a singular technique! The way you move . . . it’s . . . it’s as if the music is already inside you and you’re using your body to release it. I was . . . captivated . . . and I regretfully forgot my manners,”

“V-Viktor . . .”

Yuuri felt all the air rush from his lungs, stolen from him as he spoke Viktor’s name.

Whatever he might have been expecting to hear, it certainly wasn't _that_.

Would Viktor ever cease to surprise him?

At the sound of Yuuri’s voice, hesitant and humble and delighted all in one breath, Viktor at last looked up.

Yuuri’s eyes met Viktor’s, bright and unflinching.

“Viktor . . . Do you like _dance_?” He asked evenly.

A small, relieved smile ghosted across Viktor’s wolfish muzzle.

“. . . I _adore_ dance . . .”

And just like that, the curse was lifted; the floodgates opened, the corks unstopped, the masterpiece unveiled.

“You . . . _you do_?” Yuuri buzzed, all heady rapture and dizzy excitement.

This was . . . amazing! Incredible! Brilliant beyond belief!

Where to even begin?

“What . . . what’s your favourite style? Gavotte? Minuet? Allemande? Have you ever heard of the Ländler? It’s like a waltz, but with more hopping! I’m absolutely _dreadful_ at it. Theatrical or ballroom?  Partner or solo? What’s your favourite ballet? Have you ever seen an actual, full ballet? To be honest, I haven’t really, just a few scenes from ‘La Grande Beauté Du Sud’ that my tutor re-enacted for me once . . .”  

His racing words ground slowly to a halt, as he noticed Viktor’s face. It had that same vast, unnameable expression he had worn when the day they had met, first at the feast, and then again later in his parlor; that heavy, impossible-to-place reverence radiating from deep within in his arctic eyes.

Yuuri flushed beneath the weight of it, “ . . . ah . . . s-sorry,” he murmured sheepishly, “I . . . got a bit carried away,”

“No, not at all!” Viktor encouraged brightly, “Please, go on!” the words ached with sincerity. There was no hidden meaning; nothing polite or calculated or conversational about them; a bough heavy with ripened fruit and the promise of more.

Now Yuuri was blushing for a whole different reason.

“Actually . . .” he began, trepidation fluttering in his chest, “I’d . . . I’d like to hear more of your thoughts . . . If you please . . . ”

Viktor hesitated a moment, and Yuuri quickly expanded to assuage his reluctance, “I . . . I’ve never met anyone else who’s enjoyed dance before . . . actually, genuinely been fond of it, I mean. Besides my tutor, no one else in The Village had much appreciation for . . . these sorts of things . . .”

Viktor raised a bushy eyebrow, “Phichit?”

“Of course, Phichit was always supportive,” Yuuri agreed quickly, “and we could always talk about anything. It’s just . . . at times, our conversations could get a little . . . one sided? I mean, I couldn’t tell a chisel from a file . . . he couldn’t tell first position from third . . .” he gazed up at Viktor, keen and restless, hoping he was not being too forward; too demanding. Praying that he had at last found the thread which would unravel the tangled mystery of Viktor, and would not accidentally push him away in the process, “. . . I . . . um . . . I always hoped that someday I might meet others who loved dance as much as I did . . .”

Viktor softened, ever-so-slightly, “Well, I cannot deny that I have a weakness for the arts . . . dance in particular, although I’m certain your experience far outpaces my own . . .”

Yuuri blushed and shook his head with a little shrug; a silent invitation for Viktor to continue.

“I was introduced to the arts early on, as a part of my regular studies . . . politics, etiquette, science, arithmetic, history, geography . . . but nothing held my attention quite like dance. I found myself drawn to the raw expression of movement; so graceful, so beautiful . . . and yet . . . so powerful. The way in which performative storytelling is able to elicit such visceral reactions from an audience is . . . exhilarating. And of course, the blend of athleticism and artistry is nothing short of inspiring,” Viktor’s ruminations rumbled forth like a raging river, and Yuuri soaked up every word.

“. . . unfortunately . . .” Viktor continued, the tempest now dwindling to a well spring, “I had little time to pursue my interests in a deeper fashion, so I remained a distant admirer of the form . . . though I confess . . . I would seize upon any opportunities I was given to indulge”.

“And . . . do you?” Yuuri asked eagerly, taking a small step towards Viktor.

“Do I . . . _what_?” Viktor asked, slightly abashed, “. . . _indulge_?”

“Do you _dance_?” Yuuri clarified, with a small, bashful chuckle.  

“Ah . . . well . . .” Viktor sighed apologetically, “I _have_ . . . _previously_ . . . but not so much anymore. The . . . ah . . . claws . . . tend to dissuade me”

He reticently lifted one massive foot, daintily wiggling his padded toes with their obsidian talons to punctuate his point.

Yuuri narrowed his eyes.

_Strange_ . . . Viktor was _innately_ graceful . . . that much had been _proven_ during their first walk through the gardens. How was it that he could move so swiftly upon the ice, leave no trace in the snow, and make nary a sound within the castle, and yet claim himself incapable of the coordination required for dance? Especially since it was something he so obviously adored?

“They . . . they do? _Really_?” Another direct attack from Yuuri; this time motivated by disbelief rather than candor.  

“. . . When it’s not the _horns_ throwing off my balance, yes,” Viktor teased.

He was using that sarcastic, self-deprecating wit again . . . Viktor was trying to _distract_ him. Yuuri knew this game. It wouldn't work _this time_.  

“. . . but . . . you do _enjoy_ dancing?” Yuuri pressed; his words gentle and insistent.

Viktor let out a small, apprehensive huff, “Ah . . . I . . . I was always more suited to the audience, I’m certain,”

“Hmm . . . I don't think that’s what I asked,” Yuuri chided sweetly, taking another step towards Viktor; they were close enough now that he could reach out and touch his silver arm if he wanted to.

“Yu-Yuuri . . .” Viktor wavered uncertainly, but he didn't back away.

“I just thought . . . you know . . . if you did _enjoy_ dancing . . . that maybe we could dance together sometime?” Yuuri offered shyly, “I . . . I’ve never really had anyone to talk to . . . and I’ve never really had anyone to dance _with_ . . . besides my tutor, of course . . . but she’s . . . not . . . here . . .”

Yuuri’s cheeks burned red. That had come out a little more . . . _forward_ than he intended. But he’d said it. It was out there; nothing he could do about it now.

He nervously bit his lip, awaiting Viktor’s response.

Viktor’s eyes were wide and distant, “Yuuri . . . I am . . . so _honoured_ you would offer, believe me . . . but . . .”

Oh, good, a “but”.

“. . . but I would not ask you to indulge such a poor partner. Please understand, Yuuri . . . I cannot in good conscience take your hand . . . not while I risk scraping it with these claws . . .”

Yuuri’s eyes snapped up to Viktor’s stricken expression.

Wait _. . . that’s_ what this was about?

Viktor was afraid he would get _hurt_?

Is that why Viktor was always so formal? So distant? Is that why the staff kept singing his praises and pushing them together? Because they thought Yuuri could not see past the fur and fangs? Was Viktor worried about upsetting Yuuri? Injuring Yuuri? Is that why Viktor leaned so heavily on his manners and etiquette? So he could prove that he was not a dangerous, wild creature, but a tame and well-kept house pet?

Did he think that Yuuri was afraid of him?

“Viktor . . .” Yuuri sighed, all sympathy and soft edges.  

“But I assure you, it would be my unending pleasure to discuss art and dance whenever you would like . . . any time at all, Yuuri, just say the word –” Viktor interjected urgently.

“Viktor –”

“And, should you ever desire to hold a recital, I vow to put all of my resources at your disposal –”

“Viktor –”

“And of course, it would my distinct pleasure to attend . . . should I have the honor of being invited, that is –”

“Viktor!”

The rambling halted instantly, Viktor’s muzzle frozen open mid-sentence.

Yuuri scrutinized his host for a long moment, then let out a long, silent breath.

“You know . . .” Yuuri began evenly, “Phichit is really quite a talented inventor . . .”

It was Viktor’s turn to scrutinize Yuuri now; his silver countenance scrunched with confusion, “Yes . . . I am aware” he agreed haltingly.

“Mm-hmm,” Yuuri continued, mulling his own thoughts over before he spoke, “He made my glasses, you know. It’s true that I don’t have greatest eyesight . . . but these glasses . . . they’re really quite effective. When I wear them . . . well, honestly, I can see just fine,”

Viktor did not respond right away, puzzling over Yuuri’s words, “Yes . . . I believe it. Hearing Phichit detail his work was fascinating. He seems quite brilliant . . . and indeed, very skilled”

“Yes, he is,” Yuuri agreed brightly, throwing Viktor a very pointed look.

Viktor stared back at Yuuri, trying in vain to suss out his meaning a few moments more, before surrendering with a defeated sigh, “Forgive me Yuuri . . . I’m afraid I don't understand what you’re trying to say . . .”

At last, Yuuri took pity on the plaintive Beast before him, “What I _mean_ is . . . I _know what you look like_ , Viktor,”

The challenge hung in the air; it passed, unanswered. Viktor did not meet his gaze.

So, Yuuri took one more step, now nearly toe-to-toe with the object of his fascination;

He pressed on, his voice quiet, barely above a whisper; his words were gentle and round with sympathy, but still firm and resolute, “I can see your claws . . . I can see your horns and your fangs and your . . . fluffy tail . . . but it doesn't . . . those things don't bother me. They don't trouble me one bit. You may _look_ frightening . . . but you can't fool me. I know you’re _really_ just a _big softie_ who likes _art_ and _literature_ and _dance_. So . . . you can stop trying to scare me away now . . . because it won’t work. I’m not afraid of you, Viktor.”

The silence which followed was thick and heavy, dense like a December snowfall and twice as blinding. But Yuuri did not flinch. He did not waver. He did not wish a single word away, or summon a fresh fleet to rouse distraction from the stillness. He let the wintry quiet blow through the air, allowing voiceless drifts of to pile up all around them in the secrecy of his makeshift studio; inviting the lull to settle into his skin and hibernate in his bones.

Eventually, Viktor spoke.

“Yuuri . . .”

“Yes, Viktor?”

“. . . Would you care to join me for tea this afternoon? Assuming you have no prior engagements, of course,”

Yuuri smiled, “Yes, I would like that very much,”

Viktor smiled back, “As would I. Whenever you have a moment, you may come call on me in my parlour”  

“Is . . . is now too soon?”

Viktor stopped short, stunned for a moment, before his smile spread, “Now?”

Yuuri shrugged, “I’ll . . . have to, ah, tidy up a bit. Get changed first and cool down. But . . . after?”

“Absolutely,” Viktor agreed, “In that case, I’ll have lunch waiting,”

“Thank you,” Yuuri replied automatically, still a bit unused to being waited on.

Viktor replied with a small nod, turning back out into the hall.

And as his host departed, Yuuri could have sworn he heard a few soft words left echoing in his wake.

“No . . . thank _you_ ”

 

*****

 

Four leagues away, the summer sun shone brightly over a quiet provincial town. The sky was a vast, open expanse of blue; cloudless and dreamy and warm, a sign of another perfect day.

However, a storm cloud was brewing in the distance.

It had been gathering for some time now; growing dark and heavy, lurking just out of sight for the past several days. But now, the storm cloud descended on The Village, blustering through the market and drawing the eye of every passerby as it raged on towards its final destination; a small cottage on the hill outside of town.

This particular storm cloud went by the name of Jean-Jacques Leroy; and he was _done_ with waiting.

Behind him, as always, was Isabella Yang; choking on the dust he kicked up as he marched down the old dirt road to Yuuri’s house.

“J.J., if you would just _listen_ –”

“No, _you_ listen!” J.J. barked, “We tried it your way! I can’t just sit around and do nothing! I’m a man of _action_ , Isabella!”

Isabella rolled her eyes and stomped after J.J.

“So what are you going to do? Just . . . order him to marry you? What happened to ‘taking it slow’ and ‘courting him properly’ and ‘showing him you could change’?”

She received no reply from her stubborn companion.

“What are you even going to say to him, J.J.?” Isabella demanded.

“I’ll figure it out when I get there!” J.J. hollered back.

Isabella groaned; J.J. was in one of his ‘ _moods_ ’ again. There was nothing she could do now but wait it out. So, she continued to trudge up the hill behind Storm Cloud J.J.

“What makes you think he’s even here?” She pouted petulantly.

“That’s his house, isn’t it?” J.J. snapped back, “No one has seen him for what, a _week_ now? Where else would he be?”

Isabella grit her teeth and did not reply; had it really been a whole _week_?

J.J. marched up to the cottage with Isabella in tow, and rapped sharply on the oak door. He straightened his jacket and smiled.

The door did not open; J.J. glared at it like it owed him money.

He knocked again, louder and more insistently this time.

Still, the door did not open.

“See?” Isabella gloated, “He’s not home. Let’s just go, J.J. –”

“Well then, _where is he_?” J.J. roared, “He hasn’t been to the market, the clearing, or the tutor’s place in days . . . if he’s not at home, then _where is he_?”

“ _I don’t care_!” Isabella roared back

J.J. paused, sizing Isabella up like he was seeing her for the first time, “What . . . what did you just say to me?” 

Isabella’s lip trembled ever-so-slightly, “I said . . . I don’t care where he is,”

J.J. deflated instantly, “I . . . I can’t believe you! That’s my _one true love_ you’re talking about!”

“J.J., he is _not_ –”

“Oh not _this_ again!”

“Yes, ‘ _this again_ ’, because _apparently_ you didn’t listen to me the _first time_ I said it!”

“Because apparently _you_ have _no idea what you’re talking about_! Just look how well your last idea panned out!”

Isabella shot J.J. a petulant glare; it wasn't _her fault_ that Yuuri’s brother had called J.J.’s bluff.  

J.J., for his part, at least had the decency to look ashamed of himself. He rubbed at his brow contritely, before heaving a deep sigh, “I’m sorry. That was out of line,”

Isabella scowled.

“Come on . . . don’t be mad” J.J. wheedled.

Isabella kept scowling.

J.J. rolled his eyes, “Fine, you win!” he drawled in exasperation, “I just want to check on Yuuri. As soon as we find him, we can go, alright?”

Isabella crossed her arms, “He’s a _grown man_ , J.J., not some . . . _damsel in distress_ ” she wailed.

“I know that!” J.J. snapped, “But . . . it’s _weird_ , isn’t it, Isabella? Even _you_ have to admit that it’s _weird_ ”

Isabella stewed silently for a moment; the last person to go missing from The Village had been Louis Dubois. Four years ago at the Annual Town Banquet, Louis had ‘overindulged’ his ale and wandered away from the festivities. Later, they had found him trapped at the bottom of a dry well just outside of town. And even _he_ had only been gone for 3 days; Yuuri had been absent for at least a week now.

Isabella pouted, “What? You think Yuuri _fell down a well_ or something?” she scoffed.

“It’s _possible_ ” J.J. insisted tersely, regaining his composure and standing up straight. Isabella replied with nothing more than a roll of her eyes.

J.J. took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, “Look, all I know is that _the man I love_ hasn’t been seen in _days_. He’s _missing_ , Isabella. I _need to find him_ and _make sure he’s safe_ ”

Molten lava churned inside Isabella’s chest, threatening to surge up and brand J.J. with white-hot condemnation; “He’s not _missing_ , J.J., he’s just _avoiding you_ ”!

Instead, she bit her tongue.

J.J. stared down at her from his place on the porch.

“So . . . are you with me, or not?”

His voice was heavy in the summer sunlight; soft but insistent, dragging her ever downward.

“You’re not a _hero_ , J.J.,” Isabella whispered, “You’re a _hunter_ ,”

“For Yuuri, I can be both. Now, are you _with me_ , or _not_?” His words were sharp; harsh and demanding.

How cruel he was, to threaten her with freedom.

“Fine. I’m with you,” She muttered.

She regretted it already.

J.J. however, perked right back up, “That’s what I like to hear!” he exclaimed triumphantly, “Together, we’ll find Yuuri in no time!”

Isabella just shook her head, “I still don't understand why you even bother,” she sighed. 

“Look, I know you don’t like Yuuri . . . but he’ll come around, you’ll see!” J.J. opined victoriously. He jumped off the porch and began to pace the length of the cottage, peering in through the windows as he did so.

“You sound very certain of that,” Isabella noted, her voice edged with challenge. 

“Of course I am!” J.J. crowed, “I mean, it’s not like there’s anyone _else_ ”

Isabella raised one graceful eyebrow, “Anyone . . . _else_?”

“Anyone else _good enough for Yuuri_ ,” J.J. explained, “I’m the most eligible bachelor in town, Isabella . . . and sooner or later, he’s going to realize that. _Sooner or later_ , he’s going to realize that _we belong together_ . . . that I’m the _only one_ who would do _anything_ for him . . . that I’m the _best_ he’s ever going to _get_ . . .”

“How romantic,” Isabella drawled sarcastically, “You should put that in your vows”

J.J. turned back to Isabella with a venomous glare; but before he could speak, a bright red plume lit up the sky, bursting into a shower of sparks with an earth-shattering boom.

Both hunters turned instinctively towards the commotion; something had just exploded above the old barn to the west.

Isabella looked back to J.J., her expression deadpan.

“Found him”.

J.J. just scowled in response and stomped across the field toward The Mad Tinker’s Workshop.

Once again, Isabella was left trailing behind.

 

*****

 

Viktor could hardly believe his luck.

He had no idea exactly _how_ he had managed to turn his _unseemly_ indiscretion into a tempting tea date, but by some _miracle_ he had managed to weasel his way into Yuuri’s good graces; and now Yuuri was _here_ , in his _private parlour_ , discussing _art_ and _music_ and _dance_ with _him_ as if they were _grand old friends_ , and not fledgling acquaintances, thrown together by chance and circumstance.

However, Viktor was finding it harder and harder to concern himself with propriety, or even _remember_ that he was _supposed_ to be feeling penitent in the first place; it seemed that Yuuri had a way of making him forget himself.

Honestly though, how was Viktor supposed to continue implementing the rigid rules of his etiquette when Yuuri was so wonderfully _whimsical_ and _open_ and _honest_ and _straightforward_ and _free_? How was Viktor supposed to uphold his end of the conversation when Yuuri’s voice was rapture incarnate? How was Viktor supposed to sit up straight when Yuuri’s smile made him so weak?

At present, Yuuri was sitting in Viktor’s own favourite magenta armchair; He had wanted Yuuri to have the best seat in the room, after all. Viktor sat directly across from him, on a plush bench with curling arms. It was upholstered in a deep plum coloured brocade, embroidered with a pattern of golden fleurs de lis. Viktor’s shaggy tail draped down inconspicuously over the open back.

He _really_ wanted to make a good impression this time; to court Yuuri _properly_ for once. So Viktor had taken the same opportunity as Yuuri to change his clothes and tidy up. It wasn't _much_ of an improvement, but his mane had been combed at least, and he was wearing a shirt; the only one which had ever fit his beastly frame. It had been found up on the third floor in one of the old storage rooms; a vast, dusty tomb of a room, filled top to bottom with outdated clothing of nobility long since past.

So far, everything had gone according to plan; no staff had appeared to derail his progress, and for once, Viktor had managed not to make a fool of himself.

It was actually kind of . . . nice, just sitting here, talking like this. Maybe Masumi had been right; maybe simple really was better.

Yuuri was currently in the middle of regaling Viktor with the side-splitting tale of his first and _only_ time dancing at the Annual Town Banquet.

“. . . now, keep in mind, I don't actually _remember_ starting _any_ of this . . . but apparently after watching _me_ , they _all_ decided to strip out of their shirts to dance . . . and by the end of the night, all the young men in town were running about in nothing but their breeches! The Captain was _not_ impressed . . .”

Viktor laughed freely; the sound regrettably unfamiliar to his own ears, “Yuuri, how scandalous!” he teased, “Honestly, what sort of dancing do they _teach_ you out in the country?”

Yuuri laughed as well; sweet and supple and bright. Viktor decided he could drown in that laughter and die a happy man; he briefly wondered if own his laugh was a pleasing one.

A bright blush coloured the tips of Yuuri’s cute little ears, “They _don't_ , really . . .” he retorted playfully, “Besides, I already told you . . . none of that was my idea! I was just trying to help . . .”

Viktor raised a taunting brow, “You drank 16 flagons of ale, insisted on teaching everyone the Ländler, and then started to publicly disrobe . . .”

Yuuri flushed an even deeper red, “I . . . I was nervous! I lost count of my pints! And Theo Miller started it! He _asked_ me to show him some steps so he could woo Paulette Baker! And _I_ had _only_ taken off my _jacket_! It was the _summer equinox_ and it was _hot outside_ . . . It’s not _my fault_ everyone else got the wrong idea!” he objected, looking delighted all the same.

“Of course, of course,” Viktor conceded, “. . . Coincidentally, for this evening’s dinner, I will be serving exactly 16 flagons of ale . . .”

“Viktor!” Yuuri whined adorably, covering his face with his hands.

Viktor smirked triumphantly as his heart fluttered in his chest.

After a moment, Yuuri lowered his hands, semi-collected, “anyway . . . that was the only time I ever . . . did anything like that . . .”

“Which?” Viktor prodded, “Drank 16 flagons of ale, or led a cult of shirtless dancers?”

Yuuri laughed once more and rolled his eyes, “ _Attended a banquet_ ,” he replied pointedly, “It’s kind of a shame actually . . . big celebrations like that . . . they’re the only time The Village had much to offer in the way of dance”. Yuuri’s voice had gone softer now, more wistful, and although the tone had shifted, Viktor didn't mind. He wanted to know _everything_ about the sweet, beautiful dancer before him; to get lost forever in the story of Yuuri.

“That is a pity,” Viktor offered gently, “though it’s remarkable that your lack of resources has not hindered your passion . . . or your skill. I admit, I have to wonder Yuuri . . . if the opportunities to peruse dance back home were so slim . . . how did you become so enamoured of it in the first place?”  

Yuuri went soft at the edges then, as if a beautiful song had begun to play, “Well . . . I suppose I owe a lot of that to my tutor. My parents had hired her when I was really young to help me with my studies. I was . . . a bit of a daydreamer. Anyway, she had once been a courtesan, so she would tell me all kinds of stories about castles and princes and balls . . . and I loved them so much I _begged_ her to teach me to dance . . .”

“You . . . just wanted to dance at a ball?” Viktor asked; his words round and full of awe; such a sweet wish from such a sweet boy.

Viktor himself had attended many balls, and even hosted his own with reputable frequently. Apart from being a perfect opportunity to socialize, develop better relations, bestow favour and show good will, Viktor had always found them to be a source of great mirth and fun; the closest he ever came to truly feeling free.

The balls had always been grand and opulent and extravagant . . . although, after having been to so many, the dazzling accoutrements had become dull, the glittering conversations turning trite and lackluster . . . but there was always music, and there was always dancing, so in the end, they were always worth it.

To dance at a ball; Viktor thought it a very wonderful dream indeed.

“Oh . . . well . . . I was just a kid,” Yuuri shrugged bashfully, “but, once I started dancing . . . I just couldn't stop. I fell in love, I guess,”

The quick grin he shot Viktor then nearly made the poor Beast’s heart stop.

“But you’re right, there’s only so much I can learn back home. That’s why I was planning to move to The City someday,” Yuuri confessed, “I . . . I’ve always wanted to see a live ballet. See actual, _real_ dancers on stage . . .”

“You _are_ a real dancer, Yuuri” Viktor objected, “At any rate, you’re _much more talented_ than any of the principles _I’ve_ ever seen at the City Ballet . . .”

“You’ve seen the City Ballet?” Yuuri chirped, sitting up straight on the edge of Viktor’s magenta chair; eyes bright and excited, “When? How? What was it like? Incredible right? I mean, it must have been, their shows are famous! I’ve always wanted to go to one. I hear that the City Theatre is three stories tall and three blocks wide . . . and right on the river! It must have been the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen!”

For once, Viktor couldn't agree with Yuuri; the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen was right before his eyes at this very moment.

“Come on, Viktor!” Yuuri begged charmingly, “Tell me more about the City Ballet! Please!”

Viktor couldn't say “No” to that face.

“It was . . . many years ago,” Viktor began carefully, “I had the privilege to see the opening of ‘La Grande Beauté Du Sud’,” he smiled, recalling the memory, “It was . . . a night I’ll never forget”

It had been one of the rare occasions Viktor had ever indulged himself as a Prince; he had been on a short sojourn to The City to work with the Capitol Treasurer on some project or other.

The City had made Viktor feel small and insignificant and despondent; but then, the poster for “La Grande Beauté” had caught his eye . . . and for that one perfect evening he had escaped from the dull, dreary streets of reality into a fantastic realm of beauty and romance.

Being with Yuuri felt much the same; like the world was just this big, empty, endless thing, and Yuuri alone carried all the songs and colours and sensations he needed to make life worth living.

So, Viktor recited his experience in detail; from the moment he arrived at the City Theatre to the standing ovation at the end of the show. Through it all, Yuuri sat enraptured; leaning forward in his chair, hanging on Viktor’s every word, spilling forth question after question.

“How big was the stage?”

“How many dancers were in the chorus?”

“Which piece was your favourite?”

Viktor answered them all, going on and on and on about costumes and set, technique and accompaniment, audience and etiquette, and of course, the show itself.  

“. . . then, in the final overture, the young lovers are reunited at last!”

“I knew it!” Yuuri gasped in delight.

“However! They’ve been followed!” Viktor continued dramatically.

“No!” Yuuri yelped.

“Yes!” Viktor cried “The jealous suitor has stalked them to the grove . . .” _thump, thump, thump,_ “. . . the suitor draws his sword, and challenges the heroine to a duel . . .”

_Thump, thump, thump . . ._

“V-Viktor . . .”

“Steel rings against steel as they fight for the fair maiden’s hand!”

_Thump, thump, thump_. . .

“Viktor!”

_Thump, thump, thump_. . .

“. . . Yuuri? What’s wrong?” Viktor asked innocently.

_Thump, thump, thump_. . .

“Ah . . . nothing,” Yuuri replied. His face crinkled, as he tried not to laugh, “It’s just . . . your tail . . .”

_Thump, thump, thump_ . . .

Viktor twisted around, quickly looking over his shoulder; his stomach plummeted.

In his excitement, he hadn't noticed that his big, bushy tail _had started to wag_ ; beating a soft, steady rhythm against the carpeted floor.

His _tail_ was _wagging_ ; some _Beast_ he made.

Viktor stole a quick peek at Yuuri, who looked like he was using every ounce of his willpower to keep a straight face.  

So, Viktor slowly sat up straight, nonchalantly reached behind himself and took hold of his tail, then gently wound it up over his waist, draping it across his lap; he elegantly folded his hands together over top of it, to ensure it remained securely pinned down. 

Viktor looked at Yuuri.

Yuuri looked at Viktor.

Viktor cleared his throat.

“Yuuri . . . I am a _terrifying_ Beast” he insisted.

“Absolutely horrifying” Yuuri agreed, deadpanned.

“Yes. Incredibly fearsome,” Viktor reiterated, unable to stop the coy glint in his eye.

“Downright vicious,” Yuuri added with a smirk.

“Terror incarnate . . . the stuff of nightmares, really,” Viktor concluded with a satisfied grin.

“Yes. Very scary indeed” Yuuri concurred sarcastically, no longer trying to hide his perfect, endless smile, “. . . and _not at all_ adorable,”

Time ground to a screeching halt.

Viktor’s heart stopped; did . . . did Yuuri just say he was _adorable_?

It was sarcasm, sure . . . but still . . . Yuuri said he was _adorable_.

YUURI. SAID. HE. WAS. ADORABLE.

"Viktor . . ."

So _this_ is what all the ballads were on about.

“Viktor?”

Nothing in the world could ever possibly feel better than _this exact moment_ ; Viktor needed ten thousand roses, _IMMEDIATELY_.

“Viktor!”

“Hm?” Viktor snapped harshly back to reality; Yuuri was grinning at him, with his bottom lip caught nervously between his teeth.

“I was asking if they live happily ever after . . .” Yuuri chided, “The heroine and her fair maiden, in ‘La Grande Beauté Du Sud’ . . .”

Viktor gazed into those big, brown eyes and melted, “Yes . . . of course they do, Yuuri,”

That was a lie.

A big lie.

The ballet had ended in tragedy; the suitor had deviously coated his blade with poison, and he managed to land a single hit before the heroine stuck him down. The heroine had then died in her lover’s arms.

But he couldn’t tell Yuuri _that_.

Not when Yuuri was looking at him with those big, beautiful brown eyes.

“Good”, Yuuri replied with a serene little smile.

Viktor returned that smile, and then some.

“So,” Yuuri prompted, scooting even closer to the edge of the chair; his feet were firmly on the ground now, his elbows on his knees he was leaning so far forward. 

“So?” Viktor repeated, half uncertain what Yuuri was getting at, half distracted by the sudden, newfound closeness; unbridled euphoria still buzzing through his brain.

“So, how does it end? Does the heroine defeat the suitor?  Does he die? Does he flee? Is there a wedding?” Yuuri wheedled, his smile brightening.

Viktor’s ears perked up; oh, Yuuri wanted to know the end of the story!

Right . . . the end of the story . . . the _happy ending_ which _didn't exist_ . . . because Viktor had just _lied_.

Now he had done it.

“What . . ?” Viktor drawled, frantically stalling, “You mean . . . you want me to go and _ruin the ending_?”

Yuuri straightened, a little abashed, “It wouldn't _ruin_ it . . .” he objected softly.

“But . . . but you’re going to see it at the City Theatre someday, yes?” Viktor countered, more confidently than he felt, “I couldn't possibly deprive you of experiencing it for yourself! Forgive me, I’ve probably _already_ said too much!”

“Viktor, please!” Yuuri groaned dramatically.

“I’m sorry, Yuuri,” Viktor apologized coyly, “I just can't bring myself to spoil it for you”

Yuuri narrowed his eyes, starring Viktor down, “It’s _that_ good?”

“It’s _that_ good,” Viktor promised, hoping to change the subject quickly.

At last Yuuri relented, “Well . . . I’ve waited this long,” he acquiesced with a little smile, “I suppose I can wait a little more”.

Yuuri relaxed back into the chair; his eyes drifting towards the unlit fireplace.

Viktor felt a slight pang of guilt, watching Yuuri recede; his earlier delight still humming in the back of his mind.

Yuuri had called him _adorable_ ; he _had_ to get this tea date back on track _now_.

“Are you cold?” Viktor asked kindly, “Shall I get a fire going?”

“Ah, no thank you, I’m alright,” Yuuri declined politely.

The air was spotted with silence as Viktor wracked his mind trying to come up with a new topic of conversation. He couldn't let it end now; not when he was so close!

However, Yuuri spoke first.

“When were you in The City?” he asked, the question light, saccharine and unobtrusive.

Simple as it was, Viktor was forced to contemplate his answer a moment; halting his own rapid ruminations.

Honestly, he had no idea how much time had passed since the spell had first been cast. When _had_ he been in The City? 5 years ago? 50?

“. . . When I was much younger. Perhaps 22 . . . 23,” He replied at last, the answer vague and affable.

Time had no meaning to him anymore; he and the staff did not age within their bewitched prison . . . but that was the best way he could answer.

Thankfully, Yuuri did not probe any further, “I’d like to see it someday . . . The City, I mean,” he explained, “I always dreamed of living there. Phichit and I . . . we didn’t . . . we _don't_ really belong in The Village, I suppose,” his face was still turned towards the unlit fireplace, his voice pleasant and warm, but now tinged with melancholy.

“. . . What kept you there, then?”

Viktor didn't know what had made him ask; it was such a terribly familiar question. Highly inappropriate for two fledgling acquaintances such as themselves; but something about the way Yuuri looked now, so small and distant and vulnerable, made Viktor want to reach out and gently pull him back down to earth; like the string of a kite abandoned to the breeze.

Yuuri slowly came back to him, mulling over the question, “Ah . . . well, mostly money, I suppose,” he answered reasonably. Viktor nodded sympathetically.

“And . . .” Yuuri continued cautiously, “It can be hard . . . to leave home . . . even if it’s not perfect, it’s still . . .”

“Home” Viktor finished for him; his voice just as soft and reticent.

“Yea,” Yuuri agreed with a shrug, “but I mean, the world is so much bigger than that,” he added quickly, “there’s so much more to do and see . . . so many places to go . . .” his spirits and speech had both perked up significantly.

“Ah, do I sense a bit of wanderlust now?” Viktor teased, immediately matching Yuuri’s energy.  

Something still felt _off_ though . . . something Viktor couldn't quite name . . . couldn't quite place.

“I’ve always wanted to travel,” Yuuri admitted brightly, “my grandfather, on my mother’s side, he was a sailor before he met my grandmother,”

“Sailor’s blood, that explains it,” Viktor joked, in a very matter-of-fact tone.

Yuuri just smirked and continued, “Apparently my great-grandparents didn't want my grandmother to marry him. They thought a sailor would never be able to settle down with a farm girl . . . too much _wanderlust_ ,” Yuuri chided, playfully throwing Viktor’s own word back at him, “but . . . they were in love. They got married, and eventually inherited the farm, and . . . that’s where Phichit and I live now,”

Understanding crashed over Viktor like a tidal wave, “. . . it would be hard to walk away from that,”

Another pang of guilt reverberated in Viktor’s ribcage.

“A bit, yea,” Yuuri agreed; no longer melancholy, but rather, a bit proud, “Do you want to know what my grandmother got my grandfather as a wedding gift?”

Viktor nodded eagerly.

“An atlas,”

“An . . . atlas?” Viktor repeated gently.

“Mm Hmm,” Yuuri confirmed with a grin and a little nod, “She wanted him to have a copy of the world for his very own . . . since he gave up his whole world to be with her,”

An unseen vice wrapped around Viktor’s heart, yanking it _hard_ and making it ache.

Viktor smiled, “. . . well, I think we’ve discovered where you get your love of happy endings,” he remarked sweetly.

Yuuri snorted.

Honest to goodness _snorted_.

And it was adorable, because _everything_ Yuuri did was adorable.

“Could be,” Yuuri conceded through his laughter, “He passed it down to me, you know . . . his _atlas_ . . . I used to spend entire days looking through it; dreaming of all the places I wanted to go,”

Viktor nearly flinched; another sharp stab to the chest; the guilt was back.

“Like . . . The City?” he ventured.

“Yea,” Yuuri shrugged, “someday,”

Viktor nodded resolutely.

How foolish he had been.

How selfish.

He should have known better.  

Yuuri wasn't just a random acquaintance; some lost traveler whom he had met by happenstance.  

Yuuri wasn't just a farm boy or an artist or a dancer.

Yuuri wasn't just a friend.

Yuuri wasn't just the object of his affection.

Yuuri was real.

Yuuri had a past, and a present, and a future. He had thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams and desires and ideas and plans and memories. He had family and friends and a life of his own; an infinite number of intricacies woven into a single human being.

There were parts of Yuuri that Viktor would never know; parts which changed and shifted and evolved and acted completely independent of Viktor’s existence.

Yuuri’s life did not revolve around Viktor.

And yet, here he was.

And here Viktor was.

Viktor’s conscience rumbled, like distant thunder.

How could he not have realized?

If Yuuri was here with him . . . then he couldn't be at The City Ballet; he couldn't be at home with Phichit; he couldn't be sailing the seas or wandering the world or chasing his own dreams.

How foolish Viktor had been.

How selfish.

“Well,” Viktor began smoothly, “When the day comes that you _do_ make it to The City . . . promise me you’ll audition for the Ballet”

“W-what”? Yuuri bolted upright in his seat, face burning beet red, “I’m not . . . I couldn't possibly!”

“Oh? And why not?” Viktor challenged, his voice thick with amusement, “I wasn't merely being polite before, Yuuri . . . you have tremendous talent. Better than any principle I’ve seen . . . even at The City Ballet,” he made his words as sincere as possible.  

“I . . . that’s a _long_ way off,” Yuuri stammered, “I . . . I have _a lot_ of work ahead of me before I’m ready for that . . .”

Viktor smiled, “Well then, it’s lucky you have your very own dance studio,” he remarked casually, “and as much time as you desire to practice,”

Yuuri looked like he was about to object, but instead just continued to blush, with a cute little nod.  

After a moment, Yuuri spoke, “About that . . . I’m sorry. I . . . I suppose I should have let you know I was planning to commandeer one of your spare rooms for practice,” he apologized sheepishly.

“No, no, not at all!” Viktor objected quickly.

How could he make Yuuri understand?

“. . . the castle is your home now, Yuuri,” he stated gently, “ . . . you’re free to go wherever you wish, use whichever rooms you desire, spend your days however you like . . . please, do not feel like you require my permission to go about the castle, or partake in pastimes you enjoy; you are not beholden to anyone.”

“Oh . . . alright then . . .” Yuuri’s previously averted eyes became bright and wide and started to sparkle.

Viktor loved that face; seeing Yuuri’s eyes so big and innocent and sparkly.

It usually happened when Yuuri was surprised, or delighted, or ruminating on some stubborn puzzle.

He always loved Yuuri’s eyes, but he _especially_ loved it when they sparkled like that.

He wished he could see that face every day for the rest of his life.

He wished _he_ could be the one to make Yuuri’s eyes sparkle like that.

Viktor’s chest ached; eaten away by his new revelation. His heart was torn into halves, then thirds then quarters.

Selfish.

“I . . . I sincerely wish for you to be happy here, Yuuri,” Viktor continued, a bit more softly now, “If . . . if there is anything I can provide, or adjust, or even remove, in order to make your stay more comfortable . . . you have only but to ask,”

“. . . T-thank . . . you” Yuuri blinked bashfully, eyes still sparkling away.

A shiver ran up Viktor’s spine. 

“Ah . . . however, if I may ask . . .” Viktor glanced to Yuuri for permission before continuing.

“Anything,” Yuuri invited brightly.

Death. Death would take him soon, Viktor was certain of it; gazing into those deep, dark, dreamy eyes while his very own conscience tore him to shreds.   

“Though you are, of course, welcome to use any room you would like . . .” Viktor began slowly, “I . . . can't help but wonder if you would prefer to pursue your dancing . . . in the _ballroom_?”

If it was possible, Yuuri’s eyes went even wider.

“The . . . the _what_?”

“The . . . ballroom,” Viktor repeated a little uncertainly.

Yuuri was silent a moment; Viktor was about to panic, but then gratefully glimpsed the tell-tale curve of Yuuri’s smile.

“I didn't know there was . . . do you really have a . . ?” Yuuri’s eyes sparkled like never before, “Will you . . . show me?”

Viktor’s heart flooded with a warmth he never thought possible.

“Your wish is my command,”

 

*****

 

Phichit was _not_ impressed.

Well, actually he was; _immensely so_ if he were being honest.

But he was the adult here; which meant he was in charge; which for the moment, meant he had to be “not impressed”.

Or at least, it meant he had to exude a district air of “not-impressed-ness”.

He stood in the middle of his workshop, between the center and south benches; in front of him, the Nishigori Triplets stood in a line with their heads hung, their expressions sporting varying degrees of contrition. Minako sat at the south bench, pouring over tax records and being absolutely no help at all.

Because, in her own words . . . “My entire vocation centers around disciplining children, I’m not about to take it up in my free time”.

Fair enough.

Phichit scrutinized the three girls; how they had even managed to _find_ the fireworks in the first place, he had no idea. How they had figured out how to get into the locked safe box, prep the launch site and rig the ignition was a whole other story entirely.

Seriously, it was impressive.

No, not impressive! The most completely not-impressive thing. Ever.

Because children . . . explosions . . . danger . . . etcetera.

“Alright girls,” he said at last, his voice stern and boring and not at all fun, “Your parents and I agreed to let you spend time in the workshop, as long as you promised to be safe, and follow ALL the rules,”

The girls sighed, “Yes Monsieur Chulanont” they chimed in unison.

“And were you following the rules?” Phichit asked; sounding so much like his old schoolmaster he scared himself . . . sounding so much like _Yuuri_ he scared himself.

“No, Monsieur Chulanont” the three admitted shamefully.

“And are you going to follow the rules, or do I need to send you home?” He asked sternly; the threat breaking his own heart as it said it.

“No! No, please let us stay!”

“We’ll be good!”

“Yea, we promise!”

“Please don’t send us home!” The Girls wailed, sporting the biggest puppy-eyes Phichit had ever seen.

“Well . . .” Phichit made a big show of thinking it over as the girls continued to beg, “I suppose you can stay!”

He folded like a house of cards.

He couldn’t help it! Their eyes were just so _big_ and their faces were just so _sad_!

The girls celebrated instantly.

“But!” Phichit cut in on their merriment, “If you break the rules one more time, I _will_ have to send you home! Do you understand?”

“Yes!”

“Of course!”

“Absolutely!”

“We’ll behave! We promise!” The three grinned up at him innocently.

Maybe a bit _too_ innocently.

“Alight!” Phichit declared, “Let’s go over the rules one more time! Axel: Workshop Rule number one?”

Axel jumped to attention, “Don’t touch anything!” She chirped.

“Good!” Phichit praised, “Lutz: Workshop Rule number two?”

Lutz smirked, “Don’t touch anything!”

“Right!” Phichit congratulated, “Loop: Workshop Rule number three?”

Loop narrowed her eyes, “Uhh . . . don’t touch anything?”

“Excellent!” Phichit grinned, “And _why_ do we _not touch anything_ in Monsieur Chulanont’s workshop?”

“Because it could explode!”

“Exactly!” Phichit confirmed, “There are lots of sharp, pointy bits in here, and if any of you got hurt under my supervision, your Papa would throw me right in jail . . . you don’t want Monsieur Chulanont to go to jail, do you?” he joked with a dramatic, saccharine smile.

“Haha, you’re funny Monsieur Chulanont” Axel giggled.

“We won’t touch another thing!” Lutz promised.

“What else in here explodes?” Loop inquired.

“Ah . . . okay, let’s . . . let’s just get back to work, alright girls?” Phichit suggested.

The triplets toddled back over to south workbench, returning to their previously abandoned drawings and schoolwork.

Phichit grinned; mission accomplished.

Ever since he had fixed their doll, the Nishigori Triplets had become . . . quite _taken_ with Phichit.

It had started innocently enough, with the girls bringing him more broken toys to fix; which he hadn’t minded in the least. It was quick and fun and he was happy to do it; besides, he _had_ offered. Phichit had only started to suspect that something was amiss when they began to come to him with broken toys _every single day_ ; sometimes twice or even three times in one afternoon! Sometimes even with the same toy.

It soon became clear, however, that their interest did not, in fact, lie in the toys at all, but rather in the ‘super fun totally mysterious and completely off-limits workshop run by an eccentric recluse’.

Except, to the triplets, Phichit was not mad, or eccentric, or even strange in the slightest; he was just their friend Monsieur Chulanont, who fixed their toys and had a cool workshop full of neat doodads.  

They had wanted to learn more; about science, about mechanics, about inventing, about . . . _explosives_. So, Phichit had spoken to Yuuko and Takeshi, who agreed that the girls could spend time at the workshop, as long as they were supervised, and as long as they were safe and as long as they followed the rules.

Setting off Phichit’s hidden stash of fireworks didn't _exactly_ fall within the boundaries of those rules . . . but Yuuko and Takeshi didn't need to know about that.

Truth be told, the Nishigoris had been more amenable to the idea when they found out Minako would be present most of the time as well. Apparently having a well-respected tutor on his side really helped Phichit’s case; if the girls could be working on their studies at the workshop while Phichit was inventing things, well then . . . it was all just very educational, right?

But the girls loved coming by, and truth be told, Phichit was glad for the company.

He missed Yuuri desperately, and he was nowhere closer to bringing him home; his and Minako’s brains had both nearly turned to mush from reading so many old tax forms.

It was really kind of nice . . . watching the girls pester Minako, listening to the girls complain about schoolwork, showing them his inventions and watching their eyes light up. He had even introduced them to the mice; whom they had all gotten along with swimmingly, of course.

And even with three extra sets of eyes and ears, he wasn't too worried about him and Minako being discovered. The girls were too young yet to care about _tax records_ ; declaring his and Minako’s work to be ‘boring’ when Phichit had told them about the “centennial project”. 

So that is how he had passed the last week; fixing toys and scouring tax records and supervising the triplets, all the while hobbling along on his crutch as his leg slowly recovered from the wolf bite.

The triplets had now turned their attention to drawing pictures of the firework they had just set off; Phichit had supplied them with sketch paper and coloured pencils during their regular visits, so they could ‘design their own inventions’; _adorable_.

With the girls engrossed in their artwork, Phichit took the opportunity to catch up with Minako.

“Find anything yet?” He asked lowly, head bowed close to the tutor’s over her current file.

“Hmmm . . . nothing so far,” she reported, “maybe if –”

A sudden, sharp sound made them all jump.

_Bang, bang, bang!_

Someone was knocking at the big, southern barn door, causing it to rattle on its rail.

Who could possibly . . ?

_Bang, bang, bang!_

“Coming!” Phichit called urgently; perhaps it was one of the Nishigoris.

Oh no. Had they seen the firework?

Phichit hobbled to the barn door as quickly as he could, praying he would not open it to reveal a very peeved Guard Captain Nishigori Takeshi.

He had really only been half-joking about the whole ‘jail’ thing.

Taking a deep breath and leaning all his weight to the right, he hauled the door open.

It was not Guard Captain Nishigori Takeshi on the other side.

But upon seeing who _actually_ stood at the entrance of his workshop, Phichit sincerely wished it had been.

“My dear old friend, Phichit!” J.J. chirped tersely, fake smile plastered to his face, “It’s been too long!” Isabella hovered just behind him, looking bored and aggravated.

“Not long enough,” Phichit muttered indignantly.

Oh great, what did _J.J._ want?

As if she could read his mind, Minako gave voice to the thought, “Well . . . J.J., Isabella, this certainly is a surprise,” she remarked, her words light and welcoming, with a hint of warning just below the surface, “I don't think either of you have ever come by the workshop before. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

J.J. turned his fake smile on Minako, and sauntered in past Phichit, “Just came to say ‘hi’ and catch up with Yuuri,” he said stubbornly.

“Well that’s odd,” Minako said innocently, “considering that Yuuri isn’t here”

Phichit’s breath caught in his throat; what was Minako _doing_? She was going to blow their cover!

The triplets were now stealing glances up from their drawings, intrigued by the newcomers; Isabella leaned against the door frame imposingly.

J.J. paced around the workshop, eyes shifting, searching for something, “You know, that _is_ odd,” he agreed, coming to rest beside the makeshift forge, “but you know what’s even more _odder_?”

“Enlighten us,” Minako invited, pointedly ignoring J.J.’s poor grammar.

“The fact that Yuuri doesn't seem to be _anywhere_ ” J.J. challenged, reaching down to fiddle with a fire-poker.

Phichit’s blood ran cold. They could not be found out, _not now_ ; especially not by _J.J._ of all people, “What? That’s –”

“DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!” The triplets cried in unison.

All four adults turned to them; J.J. dropped the poker.

“WORKSHOP RULE NUMBER ONE,” Axel recited, standing up on the bench, “DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!”

“THAT GOES FOR GROWNUPS TOO!” Lutz added, following suit.

“IF YOU DON’T FOLLOW THE RULES, YOU HAVE TO BE SENT HOME” Loop finished defiantly, crossing her arms.

“I . . . what?” J.J. stammered, caught off guard.

“You heard them,” Phichit goaded, “That’s the rule. Don't make me send you home,”

J.J. threw his hands into the air and stormed back over to Phichit, “Just tell me where Yuuri is!” he demanded

“Why, so you can _harass_ him some more?” Phichit snapped; his restraint frayed beyond repair.

“What? How _dare_ –” J.J. huffed, anger making him inarticulate, “I _am_ . . . I _will_ . . .”  

“It’s been over a week,” Isabella supplied languidly from the door, speaking for the first time.

Minako turned to the other woman, apparently appraising her as the more rational of their two guests, “over a week since what, pray tell?” she inquired, purposefully drenching her tone in naïveté.

Phichit caught himself, stamping down his own fury; oh, Minako was _good_ . . . must be a trick she picked up at court. 

“Over a week since Yuuri went missing!” J.J. exploded; his face as crimson as the earlier firework.

“Missing?” Minako let out a demure little laugh, “What _ever_ do you mean, J.J.?”

“No one has seen Yuuri in a week!”J.J. raged, practically frothing at the mouth, “he’s _missing_ , and you people don't even care!”

“Apologies . . .” Minako drawled, turning back to Isabella, “I don't think I _quite_ understand . . .”

Isabella rolled her eyes, “J.J. has gotten it into his head that Yuuri has fallen down a well,” she explained bitingly.

“You mean . . . like Louis Dubois did that one time?” Phichit asked incredulously, eyebrows furrowing.

Isabella rolled her eyes, “Something like that. I’m just here to prove him otherwise”

Minako let out a great, world-weary sigh, “Well, allow me to assuage your fears J.J. . . . Yuuri has _not_ fallen down a well” she huffed, “he has hay fever,”

A light went off in Phichit’s brain; so _that’s_ what Minako was doing. Acting normal; playing dumb. The excuse so common and uninteresting it didn't even warrant a second thought.

Phichit took it back; Minako wasn't _good_ . . . she was _very good_.

There was _no way_ they wouldn't buy it, right? The way Minako had built up to the reveal . . . the way she had turned her phrase . . . so certain, so forceful, no hesitation whatsoever.

Phichit wouldn't be the one to give them away now. So, he nodded in agreement; his expression turning immediately grave.

J.J. narrowed his eyes, “Hay . . . fever?”

“Yes, hay fever” Phichit insisted, “You may be familiar with it. It’s a common illness . . . makes you sleepy . . . sneezing, itching, red eyes . . .” he trailed off condescendingly.

“I know what hay fever is!” J.J. shot back petulantly.

“Good, then you know that Yuuri shouldn't be disturbed,” Minako admonished, “He’s been inside getting some much needed rest these past few days, and we would appreciate it if you would leave him in _peace_ ”

J.J. glared at Minako.

Minako glared at J.J.

“Doctor’s orders,” Phichit shrugged.

Isabella reached out a lazy arm to clap J.J. on the back, “You see? He’s just fine, J.J.” she drawled, “Come back and see him when he’s healthy,”

J.J. glanced suspiciously around the workshop, from the disinterested Minako to the contemptuous Phichit, to the silent, wide-eyed triplets.

“Fine,” J.J. spat, “but let Yuuri know that I’m here for him if he needs anything,”

Phichit was about to tell J.J. to stick his offer where the sun didn't shine, but Minako was too quick.

“Thank You for your consideration J.J., I’m certain Yuuri appreciates it. I assure you that we have him well taken care of,” she replied; courteously, yet cold.

The way she spoke . . . it almost reminded Phichit of . . .

No; surely he was just imagining things . . .

But in that moment, he could have _sworn_ she sounded just like The Beast.

. . . Maybe it was just a court thing.

. . . Maybe he was just losing his mind from reading all those tax forms.

J.J. turned to leave, before swiveling sharply back around, “I mean it. If he needs _anything at all_ . . .” he insisted, “Yuuri’s _hero_ will come for him,”

Both Minako and Phichit stared blankly after J.J. as he finally quit the workshop; Isabella gave them a sloppy, disinterested salute in farewell and followed.

Phichit rolled the barn door closed with a loud “ _clang_ ”, and pulled the lever down to lock it in place.

He and Minako looked to one another with twin expressions of horror. 

_Yuuri’s Hero_? What the _hell_ what that supposed to mean?

Phichit slowly turned and made his way back to the triplets, donning a chipper demeanor once more.

“Alright, girls!” he chirped, “Workshop Rule number four . . . no J.J.’s allowed!”

 

*****

 

Yuuri was thrumming with excitement; little shivers of anticipation racing up and down his spine.

“Are we almost there?” he asked, one hand extended in front of him, grasping blindly at empty air. His eyes were closed, as he had promised; his glasses off and tucked into his collar.

“Almost,” Viktor teased, his voice round and giddy, “just a few steps more . . .”

With his other hand, Yuuri hugged his newfound ballet shoes tight to his chest, so he could make certain not to drop them, “Viktor!” He whined impatiently; the word breaking over his own laughter.

Earlier, Viktor had insisted that if Yuuri was going to dance in a proper ballroom, he needed proper shoes first; and amazingly, he knew just where to find some.

On the third floor of the castle was a massive old storage room; filled from top to bottom with all manner of old outdated clothes, and apparently home to a haughty carpetbag named Anya and her great hulking cedar chest of a fiancée. Among the vast assortment of tattered cloaks and dusty petticoats was a selection of costumes and other decorative regalia from festivities long since past; including a small collection of ballet shoes, all outgrown or otherwise abandoned.

Most were completely unsuitable for Yuuri; child-sized or mismatched or worn straight through, with no shortage of pink satin pointe shoes. But in the end, they hand managed to find a pair of men’s ballet shoes which miraculously fit _and_ matched; nothing fancy, just standard black leather, simple, flexible and perfect.

They had quit the storage room in high spirits, despite Anya grousing at them the entire time and demanding that they tell Georgi to quit sending her sappy messages via the other staff.

And so, ballet shoes in hand, Viktor had guided Yuuri to the entrance of the ballroom.

Well, nearly.

When they had made it halfway down the corridor leading up to the entryway, Viktor had proposed that Yuuri close his eyes, so that it could be an even bigger surprise.

After some playful wheedling, Yuuri had agreed.

Honestly, who knew that the stoic and impassive _Master Viktor_ had such a whimsical streak?

At present, Viktor was chuckling, very pleased with himself indeed, “Just trust me, moye solnyshko . . .” he cooed in response to Yuuri’s pouting.

Yuuri grinned, groping wildly before him in retaliation; an exaggerated gesture of his helplessness.

His swinging hand was suddenly caught in mid-air; met halfway by a deft and gentle paw.

The raucous giggles slowly petered out; it was suddenly very still in the corridor.

Yuuri felt himself blush.

But he didn't pull away, instead, he smiled and relaxed into the touch, holding Viktor’s paw a little tighter in silent affirmation; allowing himself to be led.

He swallowed hard. His chest felt strangely tight, but not in a bad way . . . more like his insides had been filled to overflowing. Like a glass poured high with heady champagne; bubbling through his veins and buzzing through his brain.

The two continued on with slow, quiet steps; each one pulling Yuuri’s puppet-strings tauter, winding the tension in his chest tighter and tighter until he was ready to burst.

His heart was racing.

Eventually, Yuuri heard the creak of a door, and was pulled carefully through.

Though his eyes were closed, a sudden brightness assaulted his senses; the air was still and stale, like breathing in the pages of an old book.  

“Now?” Yuuri asked expectantly; simmering with delight.

“Not quite,” Viktor cautioned, “just a bit more . . .”

Yuuri bit his lip in a pout, but let Viktor continue to guide him all the same.

Finally they came to a halt.

“Alright . . . you can look now,” Viktor’s voice surrounded him, echoing back in wave after breathless wave.

Yuuri slid his glasses back on and slowly opened his eyes.

All around him, the world was drenched in light; a never-ending sea of white and gold splendour reflecting back in on itself a thousand times over. It was like he had stepped inside a painted music box, or fallen right into one of the gilded pictures adorning the castle halls.

Bleached aspen floors that shone like polished marble stretched out in all directions to meet gilded wainscot walls; inlaid with a pattern of swooping golden designs as intricate as the threads of fate itself. An avalanche of snowy white light spilled in through full length arching windows, stretching from the floor up into eternity, running all along the far wall. In the center of the windows lay an enormous set of heavy glass doors, which lead out onto an elegant white stone veranda.

Yuuri turned around slowly, taking it all in with breathless wonderment. Behind him lay a massive staircase, even more elegant than the one on the entryway; this one was all white marble with gold striations, steps running up to a center landing, then splitting off to the east and west wings respectively. The stairs were wide and welcoming, with a heavy runner of gold draping down each step. The railings were also marble, heavy and wide; the banisters carved into all manner of beautiful creatures; cherubs and satyrs and dryads and nymphs, fawns and fairies and sprites of all kinds, their celestial faces dancing across the ornate marble.

Statuesque columns upheld a colossal domed ceiling as boundless as the sky itself, painted with endless murals of ethereal scenery. A few raised daises dotted the perimeter of the dance floor, the steps to each one trimmed in gold. On one of the platforms near the stairs sat a few abandoned instruments; a harpsichord, a cello, a viola, a horn.

From that heavenly ceiling hung shimmering crystal chandeliers on golden chains; draped with white sheets to keep off the dust.

Frost and age tainted most corners of the massive chamber, but that only seemed to add to the enchanted nature of the ballroom.

Yuuri turned a few more times; slowly, smoothly, taking it all in.

Finally, his eyes settled on Viktor; long silver mane and puffy white shirt, horns and fangs and fuzzy ears and fluffy tail and graceful, clawed feet laid bare for the world to see.

Yuuri gripped his new ballet shoes tighter.

Viktor wrung his paws nervously, “Do you . . . like it?”

Yuuri stood stunned a moment, “Do I _like_ it?” he repeated incredulously, “Viktor . . . this is . . .”

Beautiful? Wonderful? Incredible?

No single word quite seemed to do it justice.

Instead, Yuuri just looked to Viktor and smiled, “Thank you”

Viktor smiled back, “You are most welcome, Yuuri”

“Um . . . should I? Can I . . ?” Yuuri asked after a moment, gesturing to the shoes in his hands. He wouldn't be long . . . wouldn't do a _full_ practice . . . but really, he couldn't just _stand_ in a ballroom, ballet shoes in hand, and not at least _try a few_ _steps_ . . .

“Yes, please do!” Viktor agreed immediately, “But allow me to introduce you to the musicians first . . . I believe they will be most excited to have a reason to play once more”

Yuuri blinked, “The . . . musicians?”

“Of course!” Viktor chirped mischievously, “what’s a ballroom without accompaniment?”

Viktor turned towards the stairs, gesturing for him to come along; stunned and bewildered, Yuuri fell into step beside him all the same.

“I’ve . . . never really had accompaniment before” He admitted shyly.

“A shame . . . but not entirely unexpected, considering what you have told me of your tutelage” Viktor replied sympathetically. He then stopped walking, as if a thought was just occurring to him, “If . . . if you would prefer to continue to practice solo, that can absolutely be arranged,” he added quickly.

“No, no!” Yuuri objected kindly, “I’m excited. Just . . . surprised”

Viktor smirked, “I like surprises”

Yuuri grinned in reply as they continued on; they were heading for the dais with the deserted instruments.

He was starting to think he quite liked surprises too.

They at last reached the steps up to the little stage, and Yuuri was greeted with _another_ unexpected curiosity.

“Look! It’s Master Yuuri!”

“Yuuri? _Katsuki_ Yuuri?”

“The one everyone’s been talking about? He’s _here_?”

“And he’s with Master Viktor!”

“This is the best day of my entire life!”

“All of you, calm down, you’re embarrassing yourselves”

The instruments were talking.

The instruments were talking about _him_.

Yuuri froze in panic for a moment as he got his bearings.

The musicians! Right!

Musicians, enchanted castle, instruments . . . now it was all making sense.

But why were they talking about _him_?

Yuuri had no more time to ruminate, as Viktor thankfully cleared his throat to speak, “Good afternoon, gentlemen,”

At once, the harpsichord, the cello, the viola and the horn all turned to face them, with a singular, “Good Afternoon, Master Viktor!”

Viktor introduced Yuuri first, although _somehow_ , Yuuri highly doubted it was necessary.

With that acknowledgement officially made, Viktor turned back to him once more, “Yuuri, these are the castle musicians, Leo de la Iglesia, Guang Hong Ji and Seung-gil Lee,” Viktor paused, smiling warmly at the little horn, “it seems that today they are also joined by our herald – ”  

“Minami Kenjirou!” The little horn honked proudly, beaming up at Yuuri, “Sorry! I’m just so excited! _I can't believe I really get to meet you_!”

Yuuri’s mouth moved silently, trying to find the right words, or any words at all really, “It’s . . . it’s nice to meet you too, Minami . . .” he managed at length.

Minami let out a loud squeak; the little red and gold flag attached to his brass body fluttered with elation, “Ahh! Katsuki Yuuri knows my name!”

“Obviously he does, you just told it to him,” The cello scolded.

“Aw, give him a break Seung-gil,” the viola, Guang Hong, pouted in response.

“Ah, something we can help you with today, messieurs?” Leo offered, shuffling closer to Viktor and Yuuri on his stately wooden legs, harpsichord keys clanging as he went.

“As a matter of fact, we were hoping to employ your musical talents” Viktor revealed coyly.

The other musicians snapped to attention; Minami continued to gape at Yuuri.

“You see,” Viktor continued, “Master Yuuri is quite the talented dancer . . . and he is in desperate need of some accompaniment”

The musicians beamed; Leo and Guang Hong both lit up like a summer day, Seung-gil even smiled a little.

“Of course! Of course!” Leo agreed immediately, “We would love to!”

“Oh, this will be fun!” Guang Hong sighed, “It’s been so long since we’ve played!”

 Seung-gil curtly nodded his agreement.

 “Where do you want to start? Do you have a piece in mind?” Leo inquired; his full attention on Yuuri.

“Oh . . . I . . .”

“Ah, a moment,” Viktor interrupted gently, “Where is Lilia?”

“Over there!” Minami blurted, pointing his bell towards a discarded chair near the dais.

“Ah, thank you” Viktor quickly excused himself, returning seconds later with a small, angular box, which he placed squarely on the empty harpsichord bench.

The box ticked rhythmically; a weighted arm swung back and forth in front of its measured ebony face as its piercing eyes scoured the room.

A _metronome_.

Yuuri swallowed hard as the metronome scrutinized him, “so _this_ is the boy?” she asked gruffly.

“Yuuri, meet Lilia Baranovskaya . . .” Viktor grinned, “Our current conductor, and former prima ballerina, choreographer, and dance instructor to various branches of the northern nobility for two generations,”

Yuuri gaped at Viktor with wide eyes; it seemed there would be no end of surprises today.

“I . . . how do you do?” Yuuri stammered, fidgeting with the ballet shoes, “It’s a pleasure to meet you,”

“You are a dancer?” The metronome barked, “Then show me what you are capable of. Or do we need to start from square one?”

“Go easy on him, Lilia” Viktor pleaded playfully, “I need him intact,”

“No back-talk Viktor,” Lilia commanded; she turned immediately to Yuuri, “You, shoes on. Start stretching,” she turned back to the musicians, “Harpsichord Concerto Number 1 in E major, third movement”

The instruments hopped to obey; Yuuri scrambled to do the same.

Viktor turned to leave.

Yuuri bolted after him, quickly catching his sleeve; Viktor looked down to the boy pinning him in place.

“Ah . . . I . . .”

“Yuuri?” Viktor raised a quizzical brow, “Ah, I realize Lilia is intimidating, but I promise she isn’t as frightening as she seems,” he smiled hopefully, “I . . . ah . . . I thought you might enjoy –”

“Stay?”

“W-what?”

Yuuri took a deep breath, “You . . . you _love_ dance Viktor . . . so I thought . . . I was wondering . . .”

He looked up at Viktor, whose eyes were wide with anticipation.

“Will you watch?” Yuuri suggested; if Viktor wouldn't dance himself . . . he could watch, and still take part that way . . . that much, at least, he could do.

“You . . . do you really want me to, Yuuri? I . . . I don't have to . . .” Viktor replied; guarded yet eager.

Yuuri smirked; If Viktor wasn't going to offer, then _he_ was going to _insist_.

“Watch me, Viktor,” Yuuri breathed, tugging harder on the sleeve balled in his fist, “don't take your eyes off me,”

Unbridled shock flashed across Viktor’s features. Yuuri felt very smug, charged with a sudden possessive rush of adrenaline; for once _he_ was the one with the surprise.

“Don't dawdle!” Lilia snapped, breaking Yuuri out of his stupor, “Shoes on! Viktor, sit!”

Yuuri slowly released Viktor’s shirt; glowing as the latter retreated to sit on the stairs, never once looking away from him.

He turned back to the ballroom, to Lilia and the musicians and Minami and his shoes; the music began to sound, and he started his stretching once again, all the while feeling the heavy gaze of those dazzling arctic eyes.

 

*****

 

Viktor watched Lilia scold Yuuri from the stairs and sighed; even blushing and beleaguered, Yuuri was perfect.

Practice was in full-swing now, and though Viktor worried Yuuri might tire with two practices in one day, they hadn't been going too long, and Lilia wouldn't push him too hard. Not the first time around, anyway. Today they were only reviewing positions, going over Yuuri’s repertoire, and assessing his level of skill.  

Yuuri was doing well, _very well_ ; as nit-picky as the metronome was being, she liked him. Viktor could tell; Lilia had once been his own instructor, after all.

The way Viktor felt being here now . . . being invited to stay . . . literally being stopped in his tracks and having his presence demanded . . .

Was there even an emotion to describe this feeling? Happiness didn't come close to covering the extent of his elation.

And there was more . . . so much more. There was the joy and the wonderment and euphoria . . . the guilt and the melancholy and the misery . . . and the tingly, unnameable rush when Yuuri had pulled on his sleeve, setting him on fire with a few simple words.

“Watch me, Viktor . . . don't take your eyes off me,”

He shivered at the memory.

How could a person feel so many things all at once? How could Yuuri pull all of _that_ out of _him_? How had he gotten so lucky?

What had he done to deserve Katsuki Yuuri?  

Because Yuuri was here now; the decision was final. There would be no going back; no more second guessing or running away. Yuuri had chosen to stay and showed no signs of regretting it . . . but all the same, Viktor knew that staying meant sacrifice.

Yuuri’s presence here meant that Viktor had hope once more . . . but that same hope came at a cost; and in the end, it wouldn't be Viktor paying the price.

If Yuuri was going to stay . . . if Yuuri was going to be fearless and selfless and set his own dreams aside . . . then Viktor was determined to at least make him happy.

So, he would listen to all of Yuuri’s stories, and watch all of Yuuri’s practices and do anything that Yuuri asked . . . he would make Yuuri’s favourite meals and shower him with little surprises and give him everything he had; his time and his energy and all of his attention. He would give Yuuri his home and his possessions, his resources and his support, his company and his connections, his words and his deeds, his thoughts and his feelings, his head and his heart, his body and his soul; everything Yuuri deserved and more.

Because . . . small and insignificant as it was . . . that much, at least, he could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [French] Mon Chou = My dear/Dear one/My sweet bun (Colloquial Term of Endearment) 
> 
> [French] Merci = Thank You
> 
> [French] ‘La Grande Beauté Du Sud’ = The Great Beauty of the South. This isn’t a real Ballet, just one I made up for the purposes of this fic. I imagined it as your typical tragic romance; two wayward lovers kept apart by circumstance, etc, etc. 
> 
> [Russian] Moye Solnyshko = Мое Солнышко = My Sunshine (Term of Endearment)
> 
> Feel free to message me with any fixes!


	6. The Nightmare, The Fire & The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody is afraid of something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 is here! Thank You SO MUCH for sticking with me this long! Find me on Tumblr @silverscribblesuniverse
> 
> ALRIGHT FRIENDS, just a head's up that WE'RE GOING ON A FEELS TRIP this time around. I don't want to spoil anything, but for this chapter I HIGHLY recommend checking the content warnings - and you can read the summary for an idea of what we're getting into here. 
> 
> TECHNICAL NOTES:
> 
> As always, if you see anything weird in my translations, let me know and I'll fix it!
> 
> FIND TRANSLATIONS IN THE 'END NOTES'
> 
>  
> 
> ***CONTENT WARNINGS FOR CHAPTER 6
> 
> This Chapter contains a brief (consensual) SEXUAL ENCOUNTER. No graphic depictions, just heavy implications. 
> 
> This Chapter contains VIOLENCE - including a brief description of injuries, (mild to middling in intensity, but not overtly graphic) as well as intimidation and threats of violence. 
> 
> This Chapter contains ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION
> 
> This Chapter contains DEPICTIONS OF A PANIC ATTACK - as someone who lives with anxiety/panic attacks, I have written the panic attack based on my own experiences. Some people will experience panic attacks differently - some may be sensitive the panic attack presented in this part of the story. 
> 
> This Chapter contains MENTIONS OF FIRE & DESTRUCTION CAUSED BY FIRE 
> 
> This Chapter contains MENTIONS OF DEATH & GRIEF. 
> 
> This Chapter contains STRONG LANGUAGE 
> 
> ***A NOTE ABOUT NON-CON/DUB-CON:
> 
> This work will contain no explicit sexual content, though it will contain romantic content, such as kissing and/or implied sexual interest, like characters talking about being in love, innuendos, etc.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS A SEXUAL ENCOUNTER - There are no sex acts depicted, there is nothing graphic or overtly explicit, and NO non-con or dub-con is involved - things just get a little steamy for a minute, with sex being HEAVILY IMPLIED. 
> 
> Also, as previously noted - this work involves themes regarding unwanted romantic/sexual advances and the rejection of personal autonomy. These themes can be a sensitive subject for many, so please proceed with caution.

The world was warm and bright; a soft, hazy fog of fine cotton and silk.

Viktor turned over languidly, gloriously smothered by his ephemeral, downy cloak. He was . . . weightless.

It was so serene here. So peaceful.

Wherever “here” was.

It smelled like summer.

Time stretched and slowed wonderfully as he shifted through the heavenly plane. It was so empty here. So quiet. Nothing at all save the bed he laid upon.

Oh, there was a bed now.

How nice.

He ran a hand over his face, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. He blinked once. Then twice. Then a third time.

This bed was like his bed.

This chamber was like his chamber.

But somehow . . . it was better.

How curious. 

Suddenly, a sound stirred in the empty vacuum of ‘here’.

It was . . . a voice . . .

Viktor knew that voice.

Viktor _loved_ that voice.

“Mmm . . . Viktor . . .”

He turned towards the ethereal sound; beneath him on the bed, nestled between his arms, a soft, sleepy Yuuri had materialized.

“Y-Yuuri?” Viktor whispered uncertainly.

Yuuri sprawled out luxuriously on his back, the view bare and beautiful and beguiling.

At the sound of his name, he graced Viktor with a bright, mischievous smirk.

“Mmm, Viktor . . . c’mere,” he beckoned softly, raising a gentle hand to caress Viktor’s own bare chest; scorching a trail from his smooth, pale collar to his tightly muscled abdomen.

Yuuri’s hand went no further; a tease; a glimpse of things yet to come.

Viktor shivered at the touch; gentleman though he was, he couldn't possibly resist _that_ invitation.

He lifted his own hand to graze the gentle slope of Yuuri’s neck; his touch feather-light.

Yuuri gazed up at him with those big, beautiful brown eyes; a bashful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Something suggestive danced within his gaze. 

Viktor responded in kind; the tips of his pale, slender fingers traced a teasing trail down Yuuri’s chest to rest at his side.

Yuuri arched into the touch; his hands sweeping up into Viktor’s silky, silver hair. Reverent fingers ran through short, shiny locks; urging Viktor closer.

It was Viktor’s turn to moan. His own alabaster fingertips absently skimmed along Yuuri’s waist in a sweet, affectionate tease; his exploration never ceasing.   

Yuuri slowly reeled Viktor in further, then closed the distance entirely.

“Mmm . . . Viktor . . . _Viktor_ . . .”

If only he could capture this moment forever; the way his name tasted tumbling from those lips.

“Mmm . . . Nnn . . . Vik-Viktor . . . ah! Ahhhh! AH! VIKTOR! AUGH!”

Yuuri’s breathy moans became tortured gasps.

Viktor jerked his head up violently.

Beneath him he saw Yuuri’s beautiful face, contorted in agony . . . and there, running along his side, an infinite cross-cross of angry red wounds.

Viktor was nauseated.

Somehow, his human hands had reverted back to beastly paws; his gentle caresses becoming feral scratches, tearing deep red welts into the flawless skin he so ardently adored. Piercing and puncturing where he had once held on tight.

How.

_HOW?_

“ _Aaaaaaaugh_! _AHHHHH_! _VIKTOR_!”

Screaming.

So much screaming.  

“I . . . I’m sorry . . .”

He was a Beast . . .  a monster . . . nothing more . . .

“I’m sorry . . .”

“VIKTOR!”

 

Viktor sat bolt upright in bed; gasping for air, his mane damp with sweat.

A . . . a nightmare . . . a bad dream, nothing more.

He tried taking deep breaths to steel himself as he sat alone in his chamber; the night dark and heavy all around his beastly form.

He hadn't _actually_ hurt Yuuri. He _hadn't_.

Not _yet_.

Stupid! What a useless, nonsense thing to think. Yuuri was fine . . . he was _fine_ . . . Viktor would _never_ hurt Yuuri.

Not on purpose.

“Stop!” Viktor cried to the empty night, claws tangling tightly in his mane as he squeezed his eyes shut, willing his wicked thoughts away.

No . . . no, everything was going to be fine . . . Yuuri was _happy_ here. Viktor made him _happy_.

It had been what, a _fortnight_ since Viktor had gifted him the ballroom? Since then, life with Yuuri had been absolute _perfection_ . . . there was _no way_ that Yuuri was unhappy . . .

Right?

Viktor desperately flung the heavy down covers off himself and leapt from his bed. In a sleepy haze, he stumbled over to the little iron side-table by the balcony.

He tore the cover off the crystalline rose case, bracing himself for the worst.

But behind the dazzling diaphanous dome, the rose continued to flourish.

Viktor rubbed at his eyes again, assuring himself that it wasn't merely a trick of the light.

He lifted the glass case off and gently placed it on the ground beside him.

Wonderment filled his sleepy mind as he gazed at the rose. A full quarter of its petals had thawed; eager crimson splashes now littered the icy facade. Even the stem and thorns were starting to look whole and hale once more; sharp green spears piercing through the sleet, reclaiming their rightful home.

Viktor breathed a sigh of relief; the sight a soothing balm to his aching doubt.

He smiled at the rose and carefully replaced both the case and the cover before returning to bed.

He settled in beneath the covers, weary and drained.

Everything was _fine_ . . . Yuuri was _safe_ . . . Yuuri was _happy_ . . .

Maybe . . . maybe a dream was just a dream . . .

 

*****

 

Yuuri wandered aimlessly through the castle halls; the plush red runners beneath his shoes muffling his steps as he went, Makkachin plodding along happily beside him.  

He was in no hurry, meandering through the maze of corridors with the dog-stool at his heels; almost pacing in his complacency, pondering where he should look next.

He hadn’t seen Viktor once yet today; he wasn’t in the ballroom or the gardens or his parlor, and Yuuri wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was worried. Ever since the day that Viktor had first shown him the ballroom, they had been nigh inseparable, so for Viktor to suddenly start avoiding him like this . . .

No, that was ridiculous, he wasn’t being _avoided_. Viktor probably didn’t even know he was being sought after. Viktor must have just . . . forgotten. Or maybe he was caught up in something else. Or maybe . . .

Yuuri’s drifting steps brought him at last to a fork in the hall; a pair of voices echoed along the corridor to the right, growing steadily louder and their owners drew closer.

He smiled to himself; he’d know those bubbly tones anywhere.

Makkachin barked excitedly, bounding over to the approaching accessories.

“Good Morning, Yuuri!” Mila and Sara sang out in unison. Yuuri greeted them in kind; forcing jubilance into his tone that he did not feel in his heart.

It also must have shown on his face.

“What are you doing, wandering around down here?” Mila pouted sympathetically, “You didn’t get lost, did you?”

“You’re a long way from the ballroom,” Sara smirked knowingly.

Yuuri blushed, “Ah, yes. I am. I mean . . . no I’m not lost, but yes, I am wandering . . . I suppose . . .”

He heaved a great, world-weary sigh; might as well tell them the truth. After all, Mila and Sara knew all the castle gossip; maybe they could tell him where Viktor was. “I’ve been looking for Viktor, actually. He said he would be at dance practice again today, but I can’t seem to find him anywhere”.

“Oh! Didn’t anyone tell you?” Sara gasped, “Master Viktor isn’t feeling well, the poor dear”.

“It’s nothing serious,” Mila added, “I guess he just didn’t sleep very well last night, so he’s having a bit of a lie-in this morning”

“Oh . . .” Yuuri breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t being avoided after all.

He immediately felt guilty for his reaction; of course he wasn’t _happy_ that Viktor was unwell . . . but all the same, the anxiety which had settled into the pit of his stomach was now pleasantly abating.

“I’m sure he’ll come find you when he’s up!” Sara chimed, sensing Yuuri’s apprehension.

“Absolutely!” Mila joined encouragingly, “like I said, he’s perfectly fine; he’s just being lazy today”. She smiled sweetly up at Yuuri.

“Of course . . . I should let him get some rest,” Yuuri agreed quickly, smiling at Mila’s little jibe. “So . . . where are you two headed this morning?” he returned, quickly changing the subject.

Mila and Sara shared a brief, pointed look between them, which Yuuri politely ignored.

“Oh . . . _nowhere_ ” Mila drawled mischievously.

“I guess . . . you could come with us and find out,” Sara invited, “If you wanted to . . .”

Yuuri looked between the handkerchief and the fan, suspiciously scrutinizing their identical Cheshire grins.

“Well . . . okay. Sounds like fun,” Yuuri relented affably, bending over to let Mila and Sara climb up into his hands.

With Viktor absent, it’s not like he had anything else to do. Besides, how much trouble could the little accessories _possibly_ get him into?

Mila and Sara drifted into his waiting palms eagerly, while Makkachin jumped up playfully; as if she too wanted to be picked up. Yuuri laughed, giving the dog-stool a light-hearted pat, as Mila fluttered up to settle on his shoulder.

Once Makkachin was finally satisfied that she’d gotten enough attention, Sara started to direct Yuuri down the corridors.

After a few turns, he found himself at the top of a vast stone staircase which he had never seen before. It was more than a little ominous, with cold, bare steps leading down to a much darker floor. There were no windows below, and although the elegant sconces along the wall had all been lit, they did nothing to keep the shifting shadows at bay; instead merely bathing the subterranean corridor in a haunting orange glow.

Yuuri hesitated a moment; he hadn't known that the castle had a basement.

“Just down the steps and to the left!” Sara directed merrily, completely unfazed by the sharp change in scenery.

Though uncertain, Yuuri did as he was told. Makkachin raced ahead down the steps, her wooden legs clicking on the stone as she went, while Mila and Sara chatted happily the whole way down.

Despite his reluctance, Yuuri found that the basement floor was really quite nice; not as opulent as the upper floor, but still stately and well-kept. Iron torches replaced golden sconces, and heavy slate replaced polished marble, but there were still runners beneath his feet and decorations along the wall.

Although, down here, the runners were threadbare and worn, and the decorations had a distinctly more intimidating feel. Rather than oil paintings and bejeweled vases, they passed by imposing suits of armour and a vast collection of decorative weapons, dulled and gilded and securely mounted on ornate velvet backings.

Yuuri took it all in, still slightly ill-at-ease.

“So . . . what’s down here, anyway?” He asked lightly; trying to hide his nerves.

“Not much. Just the servant’s quarters, the storage rooms, the wine cellar . . .” Mila listed dryly.

Yuuri nodded; that wasn’t so bad

“. . . and of course, the barracks, the armory . . . and the _dungeons_ ,” She finished with a wicked smirk.

Yuuri swallowed hard.

“Mila! Don’t frighten poor Yuuri like that!” Sara chastised jokingly, “Or he won't want to come on any more of our adventures!”

The two accessories snickered; Yuuri gave a good-natured roll of his eyes.

Suddenly, Makkachin ground to a halt in front of them; stopping so abruptly that Yuuri nearly tripped over her.

“We’re here!” Sara cried happily.

Yuuri looked around slowly, dread creeping up his neck. They were right in the middle of an open corridor; there weren’t even any doors nearby.

Where _exactly_ had they taken him?  

“Uhhh . . .” Yuuri started to speak, when a sharp, strident voice erupted out of the gloom.

“ _Get your hands off my sister, you little rat_!”

Yuuri jolted upright, nearly flinging Sara clear across the hall. He swiveled wildly in search of the voice.

“Mickey!” Sara scolded from her flailing perch, “Don’t be so rude!”

Yuuri settled, following Sara’s eyes to the wall on their left. Mounted on the towering gray stone was a gleaming silver shield, pinned to a backdrop of plum coloured velvet. A pattern of precisely-cut amethysts sprawled diagonally across his face; the silhouette of a roaring lion was embossed in black lacquer beneath it.

The shield glowered down at Yuuri with piercing purple eyes.

“ _Who are you_? _What the hell do you think you're doing with my sister_?” he demanded sharply.

“Uhh . . . I . . .” Yuuri tried to answer, but was distracted by Mila quietly snickering in his ear.

“That’s enough, Mickey!” Sara snapped, leaping from Yuuri’s hand to Makkachin’s back, drawing herself closer to the shield.

“But . . . but _Sara_ ” The shield whined, looking down at her with wide, hurt eyes.

“Calm down, Crispino!” Mila snorted, “It’s just Yuuri! You know, _the one we’ve been telling you about_ . . .”

Yuuri sighed; at least now he knew how he’d gotten so popular in the Castle. Mila and Sara must like him even more than he thought, considering how much they _apparently_ talked about him.

The shield continued to pout.  

“Katsuki Yuuri?” A fifth voice suddenly entered the fray, bright and brassy and full of life.

At the sound, Yuuri’s head swung sharply to the right.

A few feet down the wall, just beside the shield, hung an ornate long sword on a backdrop of teal. His shiny steel blade pointed downward; his entire hilt plated with gold. The gilded pommel was decorated with a brilliant turquoise gemstone, and multiple smaller gems of a similar hue ran down the grip in a neat little line. His cross-guard curled elegantly towards his blade at the tips; the fine metal molded into the shape of wings and etched with intricate feathery designs.

Yuuri stumbled back to look evenly between the two; violet shield and teal sword, harsh and bright, hostile and friendly, intense and carefree, grumpy and jovial; as opposite as night and day.

“Ah . . . yes, that’s me,” he answered the sword uncertainly, “Katsuki Yuuri,”

“Wow! It’s such a pleasure to meet you!” The sword beamed, “Emil Nekola, Chevalier, at your service!”

Mila leaned in close to Yuuri’s ear, “They’re _knights_ ” she whispered proudly.

“A pleasure,” Yuuri smiled genuinely, bowing to the sword and shield in turn; careful not to jostle Mila too much as he did so.

“And _that_ sorry excuse for a Chevalier is my twin brother, Mickey” Sara sniffed, with a haughty wave at the shield.

“ _Sara_ ,” The shield groaned, as if her words physically pained him.

“No. You apologize to Yuuri this instant!” Sara scolded, unmoved by her brother’s pleas.

“Oh, it’s alright . . . that’s not –” Yuuri started to object.

“Katsuki Yuuri . . . I . . . apologize for my earlier outburst,” the shield muttered, “Michele Crispino, Chevalier, at your service” 

Yuuri blinked silently; stunned. Now _that_ was unexpected.

“Ah, Th-thank you,” he stuttered, “It’s no problem, don’t worry about it, really –”

“But I _do not_ apologize for defending Sara,” Michele interrupted, “She is my _blood_ , my _life_ , my _only sister_ . . . and I will _always_ protect her. It is my _duty_ , as her brother and a _man_ –”

“Mickey, please!” Sara reprimanded once again, her papery cheeks flushed with embarrassment, “How many times do I have to tell you – ?”

The siblings continued to bicker; their words blurring and mixing and running together as their squabbling echoed down the gloomy hallway. Emil happily shouted over both of them, trying to mediate their little dispute as Mila, rather unhelpfully, dissolved into uproarious laughter. Not one to be ignored, Makkachin suddenly started barking; apparently she too wanted a say in all this.

Yuuri’s shoulders went stiff; so much for not getting him in trouble.

“Don’t worry, they’re always like this,” Mila assured him, still reveling in the chaos.

Yuuri nodded but said nothing; feeling a small pang of envy bloom in his chest as the siblings argued.

Mari . . .

He didn’t protect her; not like he _should_ have.

Not that he _could_ have.

Eventually, the fan and shield both simmered down; Mila stopped snickering, Makkachin stopped howling and Emil remained as chipper as ever.

The Five eventually settled into a less chaotic repartee, and at length, Michele became slightly less suspicious of Yuuri’s intentions. It was Sara who turned the tide; bragging about her brother’s exploits, and making Michele crack a shy, almost imperceptible smile. The Sword and Shield spent the next several minutes regaling Yuuri with tales of their knightly adventures; which had Mila retaliating with embarrassing stories about them from court. Through it all, Sara teased her brother mercilessly.

Yuuri felt another wave of envy, but quickly brushed it aside.

The dim corridor slowly filled with bright, rolling laughter; intimate and uproarious all at once. Yuuri’s mood lifted with his friend’s spirits; enjoying both the stories and company, as raucous as they were.

 Maybe the basement really wasn't so scary after all.

 

*****

 

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

“Vitya!”

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

“ . . . Vitya! You’ve slept in long enough for one day!”

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

“Vitya! _DON’T MAKE ME COME IN THERE AND GET YOU_!”

Viktor groaned and pulled a floppy pillow over his eyes; smothering the light, and hopefully himself before Yakov could get a hold of him.

His Major Domo could be so cruel sometimes.

Soft grumbling rumbled from the doorway; the tell-tale ‘ _swoosh_ ’ of the massive chamber doors alerting Viktor that Yakov was, in fact, going to make good on his threats.

 _Clack, clack, clack, clack_.

“Vitya! It’s nearly noon! _What the hell do you think you’re doing_?”

Yakov’s voice was now infinitely closer. Viktor didn’t remove the pillow.

“Go away. I’m dead,” he whimpered from beneath the downy shield. 

Silence.

“Are you gone yet?” Viktor drawled, knowing full-well that Yakov remained. He could feel those furious eyes boring into him through the fluffy pillow.

Silence.

Viktor removed the pillow in resignation, flopping his head to the side to pout at the fuming clock.

Yakov stood a foot away from him on the ornamental side-table beside his bed. He did _not_ look impressed.

“So, are you just going to stare at me?” Viktor prodded petulantly.

Yakov sighed, “You’re wasting time,” he explained, finally willing to answer now that the disrespectful pillow-mask had been disposed of.

Viktor pursed his lips, sealing in a snarky comeback.

“Katsuki has been wandering around the Castle all morning . . . _looking for you_ ,” Yakov accused, his face unflinching.

A pang of guilt pulsed in Viktor’s chest; that was _low_ , even for Yakov.

“I don’t _feel good_ ,” he whined childishly.

“So find Katsuki and ask him to nurse you back to health,” the clock spat unsympathetically.

“You’re so mean,” Viktor grumbled.

Yakov sighed once more, “it was a _nightmare_ Viktor, not _the_ _plague_ ” he scolded.

“Meanie,” Viktor reiterated, rolling away from the hostile time piece.

The news of his nightmare had spread quickly through the staff; the castle’s rumor mill working at full speed, as always.

Viktor really should have learned by now . . . _never tell Chris anything_.

“Vitya . . .” Yakov sighed a third time, sympathy replacing exasperation, “Have you ever considered . . . just telling Katsuki about the spell?”

“I think your gears need a good winding,” Viktor muttered, with no real venom in the jibe.

“My _gears_ are _just fine_ , thank you,” Yakov snapped imperiously, “I think it’s your _head_ that needs a good _winding_ ,”

Viktor sat up angrily, turning to the snarky clock.

“What do you want me to do?” he bellowed, frustrated and defeated, “just go up to him and say ‘oh by the way, Yuuri, the Castle is under a terrible spell and you have to fall in love with me _right now_ , or else everyone here will suffer a fate worse than death’? How _very_ romantic,”

“What are you so afraid of, Vitya?” The clock pressed gruffly; his words were harsh, but there was kindness behind them.

“I’m not . . . _afraid_ of anything,” Viktor sputtered indignantly.

“No, _of course not_ ,” Yakov drawled sarcastically, “You’re not _avoiding Katsuki_ because of a _silly nightmare_ . . . you’ve just been hiding in your chamber all morning because you enjoy accumulating bedsores,”

“I am _not_ afraid,” Viktor insisted haughtily, “I just . . . Yuuri and I _barely_ know each other. It’s too much too soon. I can’t just put that kind of pressure on him . . . I might as well just ask him to marry me!”

“Seems practical enough”

“Yakov!”

“Well, isn’t that what you want?”

“ _YAKOV_!”

“ _ISN’T IT_?” Yakov demanded, unrelenting in his interrogation.

“Yes!” Viktor snapped, “I mean, no. I mean . . . it’s not that simple . . .”

“Hm,” Yakov frowned, scrutinizing the frustrated prince, “well, this seems like the type of thing you should figure out, Vitya, and _quickly_ ”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, it isn’t exactly up to _me_ ,” Viktor scoffed miserably, “None of this is. No matter how I feel, no matter what I do, I can't just . . . _make him_ fall in love with me . . .”

“Just _talk_ to Katsuki,” Yakov commanded tersely, “The boy might be naïve, but he isn’t _dim_ , Vitya. He’s going to figure it out eventually . . . _all_ of it”. He gave the Prince a _very_ pointed look.

Viktor heaved a bitter little laugh, “if Chris doesn't tell him first,” he amended morosely.

“I’d be surprised if he hasn’t already,” Yakov huffed.

Viktor nervously wrung his downy comforter in his massive paws.

“Well . . . whatever you decide, Vitya . . . you can’t do anything from in here,” Yakov declared, “Now, up you get . . . can’t keep Katsuki waiting.”

Viktor nodded numbly as Yakov hopped back onto the floor. The stern clock waddled back out into the hall, the signature ‘ _swoosh_ ’ sounding as the chamber door swung closed behind him.

Viktor groaned.

His nightmare had rattled him more than he realized.

He couldn't tell Yuuri how he felt.

He couldn't tell Yuuri about the spell.

He couldn't let Yuuri see him like this. 

It . . . it would hurt too much. Viktor _never_ wanted to hurt Yuuri, but the truth . . . the truth about how he _felt_ . . . the truth about what he _was_ . . .

How could he tell Yuuri any of it, and expect him to stay?

How could he tell Yuuri any of it, and expect him to understand?

How could he tell Yuuri any of it, and still hope that the beautiful boy might someday fall in love with him?

How could he bring himself to talk about that day? About his horrible mistake? How could he find the strength to confess his failings, face his demons and lay bare all of the hideous desires lurking inside of him?

How could he know if his feelings were even _real_? How could he be certain that he didn't just _think_ he was in love because he wanted so badly to break the spell?

How could he sleep at night; knowing that in order to save all that he loved, he would be forced to burden Yuuri with the feelings of a miserable beast? How could he bear to present Yuuri with such a disgraceful offering?

How could he hurt Yuuri like that?

How could he ever win Yuuri’s heart under such appalling circumstances?

How could he bring himself to be honest now, after all this time?  

Viktor took a deep breath, before casting off the safety of his covers.

“. . . Can’t keep Yuuri waiting . . .”

 

*****

  
In a stony basement corridor, Yuuri was parting ways with his _eccentric_ new friends.

He had decided that Michele really wasn't so bad after all; the shield was really quite pleasant, once he no longer considered Yuuri a threat. And it was impossible not to like Emil; his optimistic outlook was infectious.

“Bye-bye Mickey! Bye-bye Emil!”

“So long! See you soon!”

“I miss you both already!”

“Farewell Sara, please be safe!”  

“Arf, arf, arf!”

Mila, Sara and Emil had erupted into a sweet cacophony of good-byes, as Makkachin protested the idea of leaving at all. Michele was slightly more cordial, but joined in the clamour all the same.

Finally, as the din died down, Yuuri politely bid farewell to the bold, brazen Chevaliers.

He nearly offered to carry Sara back upstairs, but took one look at Michele and thought better of it; deciding that she would be just fine with Makkachin.

Yuuri turned to make his way back down the hall with the dog-stool and her charge at his side. They were barely three steps away, when Michele’s voice echoed after them.

“Sara! Will you . . . come again tomorrow?”

Makkachin stopped; the comforting _click-clack_ of her paws on the stone ceasing, plunging the little group into silence.

Sara turned back to Michele softly, “Of course, Mickey . . . I haven’t missed a day yet, have I?”

“No,” Michele conceded with a melancholy smile, “not one”

Sara nodded, and the little group continued wordlessly back down the corridor towards the vast stone staircase.

At length, they emerged back into the hallway at the top of the stairs, opulent luxury replacing the cold, empty silence of the basement below.

“Thank you for coming, Yuuri,” Sara said quietly, gracefully dismounting Makkachin; Yuuri gently placed Mila back on the ground beside her. “Again, I’m so sorry about Mickey. I only wanted to introduce you two . . .”

“It’s alright,” Yuuri replied gently, “he was just being protective,”

Sara nodded, trying to smile; she looked as weary as Yuuri felt. 

“Can I ask . . ?” Yuuri began quietly, not wanting to overstep.

Sara looked to Mila, defeated.

“Michele and Emil . . . they’re . . . stuck down there” Mila explained carefully.

“They can’t . . . you can’t take them off the wall?” Yuuri pressed gently.

Sara shook her head, “No. We’ve tried everything,” she answered wistfully, “But no matter what we do, they won’t budge . . . so instead, I go and visit Mickey every day.”

Yuuri blinked slowly, processing Sara’s words; his confusion dissolving into woe.

“That’s . . . really good of you Sara . . . I, um . . . I’m sorry,”

“It’s alright,” Sara shrugged, “I mean, I’m happy to do it . . . he’s my brother,”

Yuuri nodded, understanding perfectly.

Only weeks ago, he himself had raced headlong into the woods to help his own brother; tracking him to this very castle.

He missed Phichit.

He missed Mari.

Yuuri furrowed his brow, “There’s really no way to get them down?”

Mila shrugged, “No . . . it must be the spell”. 

Sara gave Mila a sharp shove, glaring at her in warning. Mila straightened up, suddenly realizing what she had just said, “I . . . uh . . . I mean . . . they’re just stuck there so tightly, it . . . it’s _like_ they’re under some type of, um, curse . . . you know, like . . . a magic . . . glue”.

Yuuri took pity on the scrambling handkerchief, “It’s alright,” he interjected softly, “I . . . I know about the spell”.

Mila and Sara looked to one another uncertainly, eyes filled with alarm.

“Chris,” Yuuri explained simply.

“Ugh! _Chris_!”

“He _would_!”

The accessories moaned in unison.

“What a blabbermouth!” Mila huffed; entirely ignoring the irony in her statement.

Sara looked up at Yuuri with wide, imploring eyes, “So are you . . . does that mean –?”

“Is that why you’re here?” Mila asked bluntly.

Yuuri swallowed hard; his heart stopped and his mind reeled, grasping for some simple way to answer.

But it wasn't simple; not at all. Layers of ‘how’ and ‘why’ stacked on top of one another, like the pages of some great, massive tome; the first installment of an eternal series, housed in an endless library of explanations. 

“I . . . I want to help,” Yuuri confessed at last, nervous under their collective gaze, “I mean, I _wish_ I could help . . . but Chris said that it’s up to Viktor to break the spell . . . that it was something only he could do,”

“He did?” Mila blurted incredulously.

“Because . . . we can't believe he would even say that much!” Sara amended.

“Right! Exactly!” Mila stammered, “That Chris . . . what a scamp!” She finished meekly.

Sara shifted restlessly, “Did . . . did he say anything _else_?” She pressed.

Yuuri paused a moment, trying to follow the strange, shifting conversation. It took him a few seconds to realize he had been asked a question.

“No . . . not really,” Yuuri answered slowly, “he . . . told me that you were all human once . . . and then the Enchantress . . . um, cursed you, and no one knows why. He told me that . . . no one in the outside world remembers the Castle, or any of you . . . and . . .” Yuuri took a deep breath, “and that if Viktor doesn't break the spell in time . . . it becomes . . . permanent”.

The air was thick with words unspoken.

Mila nodded, “That . . . that pretty well sums it up,” she confirmed mournfully.

“So then . . . if you’re not here to break the spell . . .” Sara wheedled, “why _are_ you here, Yuuri?”

“Well . . . I mean . . . like I said, I wanted to . . . help,” he started uncertainly, “I . . . I couldn’t just leave after everything you’d all done for me . . . and I . . . um . . . I like it here. And I like all of you . . . _a lot_. You’re my friends”.

Yuuri flushed; was he even making sense at all anymore? Why did it feel like they were all talking in code?

Despite his misgivings, Mila and Sara turned back to one another and smiled, seemingly pleased with his answer.

“Good,” Sara praised with a satisfied smirk, “because we like having you here”.

Mila nodded, “ _a lot_ ”

Yuuri smiled; sad and confused and grateful all at once.

“Master Viktor likes having you here too,” Sara added knowingly; and just like that, Yuuri was blushing.

Mila and Sara excused themselves shortly thereafter, claiming that they suddenly had somewhere _very important_ to be.

Truth be told, Yuuri did find it a bit suspect, but he didn't press the matter, and the three parted ways amiably. He really did like the sweet accessories; something about them felt like home. So, he made up his mind that whatever was going on . . . there had to be a good reason for keeping him out of the loop.

The Spell seemed to be a painful subject for them both . . . maybe they just couldn't bear to talk about it for too long.

He absently hoped he hadn’t gotten Chris into too much trouble.

Warmth and melancholy mixed together inside Yuuri’s chest. He drifted back out towards the main entryway, with Makkachin still at his side.

It was nearly noon now; perhaps he would go see if Viktor was up yet.

As he passed through the opulent halls, doubt started to nag at the back of his mind.

It was true; he had stayed in the Castle because he liked it here . . . because he _loved it_ here. He had stayed because he had wanted to . . . but all the same, he still had a debt to repay.

There was something he was supposed to be doing; a responsibility that he had been shirking, a task which desperately needed his attention.

Chris’ ominous words came back to him, the ones spoken that first night in the castle.

“ _The Master is . . . working on borrowed time_ ”.

Yuuri frowned; how could he have been so foolish?

“ _We’ll be no more than scrap metal . . . the castle will fall to ruin . . . and the Master will remain a Beast for all time_ ,”

How could he have been so selfish?

He should have known better.

Here he was, goofing off, indulging in dance practices and going to tea parties and wasting Viktor’s time, when his poor friend had a spell to break.

Here he was, strolling through the gardens and enjoying incredible meals and exploring the magnificent castle while his friends remained trinkets . . . while Michele and Emil remained hopelessly bound to the basement.

And Yuuri was supposed to be _helping_.

That’s what Phichit was doing back home right now; toiling away while Yuuri was here, fooling around.

 _Selfish, selfish, selfish_.

Yuuri turned on his heel, re-setting his course for the library.

It wasn't too late.

He would start now.   

He would stop getting distracted.

He would find a way to help.

He would make it up to Viktor.

He would make it up to all of them.

 

*****

 

“. . . three weeks . . .”

“J.J. . . .”

“It’s been _three weeks_!”

“J.J. –”

“NOBODY HAS HAY FEVER FOR THREE WEEKS!”

“J.J., keep your voice down!” Isabella hissed; others in the tavern had started to stare.

J.J. drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table with a loud ‘ _bang_ ’, ignorant of the eyes following his every movement.

He leaned in close, his chest draping across their little table, “You know what this means?” he seethed, voice low.

“What?” Isabella scoffed, humoring her tipsy companion; she could smell the ale on his breath.

“They _lied_ to us,” J.J. spat venomously, “The rat bastards _lied_ to us!” He threw himself back in his chair with a wobble.

Isabella said nothing. She wanted to protest, but . . . honestly, J.J. had a point. It had been three weeks since anyone had last seen Yuuri; two since she and J.J. had visited The Mad Tinker’s Workshop. Though she was loathe to admit it, it seemed that her obsessive friend was on to something.

“Perhaps it’s a very _severe_ case,” She wheedled, trying to put J.J. at ease; though she herself did not believe a word.

J.J. shot her a knowing look, picked up his tankard for another swill, realized it was empty and then threw his hands up in frustration; the heavy pewter tankard clattering to the ground as he did so.

“They _lied_ ,” J.J. declared, full of self-righteous indignation, “and I’m going to find out _why_.”

He stood up suddenly, his sturdy wooden chair scraping loudly across the tavern floor. Heavy footsteps in heavy boots rang out as J.J. shoved his way towards the exit. Isabella scrambled to follow, tossing a few coins on the table for their pints.

The Tavern door crashed open and J.J. thundered through, marching fiercely down the village streets, towards the small cottage on the hill outside of town.

“J.J.!” Isabella hollered, racing to keep up, “Stop! This is a _bad idea_! You _can’t_ go see Yuuri right now! You’re too –” 

She latched on tightly to the sleeve of his red coat, yanking his arm and stopping him in his tracks.

J.J. looked from Isabella’s white-knuckled grip to her beet red face.

“I’m not going to see Yuuri,” he growled, “I’m going to see _the Tinker_ ,”

J.J. jerked his arm out of Isabella’s grasp, and resumed his mission.

Isabella’s heart raced. She had to follow him; she had to _stop_ him . . . before he did something he would regret.

 

*****

 

The Library was a vast, archaic room; silent and unchanging.

Vaulted ceilings gave way to warm, wooden walls as sepia-toned sunlight spilled in through the high, arching windows. Monolithic redwood shelves stood in endless rows; stalwart, age-old sentries housing every tome known to man; the spines of a million stories making infinite rainbows of maroon and navy and emerald and bronze along the sturdy brackets.

To step into the Library was to travel back in time, like entering the temple of an ancient Goddess; serene, yet awe-inspiring in its grandeur.

It reminded Yuuri a little bit of Phichit’s Workshop; the way it smelled like raw wood and polish and leather and parchment.

“Hmm,” Yuuri hummed to himself, sliding another genealogical record off the shelves, studying the forest green cover and embossed lettering.

Satisfied with his find, he gripped the book tightly, swinging his weight on the rolling ladder to fling himself back to the end of the row.

There was a creak and a groan as the old wheels protested the movement, but the ladder held fast, delivering Yuuri to his desired destination.

He popped nimbly off the steps, next to a sleepy Makkachin. At his approach, the dog-stool quickly scrambled up from where she had been laying, loyally following him over to the small sitting area.

It was intimate and cozy; tucked away near the far side of the Library. A circular blue rug lay invitingly beneath four stout leather armchairs; their chestnut upholstery nearly camouflaging them with the shelves. A large fireplace of grey marble and bronze acted as the centerpiece, nestled into the back wall, the seats arranged in a loose circle facing towards it.

Yuuri scrutinized the fireplace. It was bigger than most, even others in the castle; certainly much larger than the one in Viktor’s Parlor. Little brass knick-knacks adorned the mantle, and a small pile of black, unlit coals nested in its open maw. There was no grate, but a set of slim iron pokers hung on a stand nearby.

It would be fine. 

He turned back to peruse the small stack of books that he had already accumulated. They sat on the redwood side table near his chosen seat; furthest from the fireplace, but still close, nearly facing it head-on.

Among his collection were historical accounts, architectural inventories, outdated atlases and even more family records; anything he had judged to be even remotely helpful.

If he could just find out who Viktor _really_ was . . . a rank or a surname or a date of birth . . . then he would at least have some context for _when_ or _how_ or maybe even _why_ the spell was cast in the first place.

At the very bottom of his pile lay a wide, thin book with red binding; a book of Fairy Stories.

He hadn’t been able to locate anything about magic, _per se_ ; not that he had expected to find any spell books or tomes of the occult shelved in a Palace Library.

It was worth a read, though. If there was nothing to be gained there, he would move on to the mythology section, perhaps. There had to be answers _somewhere_ ; even just something to spark his imagination, or give him some idea of what Viktor might be dealing with.

Hopefully, these would be a good place to start.

He settled into the cushy leather chair, genealogy in hand. Makkachin faithfully padded closer, coming to rest near his feet and contentedly curling up on the ground once more.

“Good girl, Makka,” Yuuri praised absently.

Excited and determined, he flipped open the emerald cover, and started to scan the pages.

One way or another, he would finally get some answers.

 

*****

 

In a makeshift workshop on the hill outside of town, Phichit was struggling to keep his eyes open.

It was just Minako and himself today; The Triplets had recently been grounded.

Phichit hadn’t asked why; he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He flipped a yellowing page irreverently, watching it flap and flutter listlessly onto the workbench beside him.

Minako looked up with a glare; apparently Phichit was making too much noise _again_.

“ _Sooor-rry_ ,” he huffed, drawing the word out petulantly.

Minako rolled her eyes and looked back to her files.

They had been at this for weeks now and still had found nothing; they were both tired and frustrated and starting to get on each other’s nerves.

Phichit knew he should be more patient. Minako was his friend, and she was just trying to help. Besides, there was no way they could bring Yuuri home antagonizing one another like this.

He just . . . he missed Yuuri so much. He couldn't stand being in this rut.

Usually his failures were a lot more _colourful_ ; but this . . .  this was just disappointment after disappointment, and there was nothing he could do but move on to the next futile page. It was infuriating.

Phichit pouted; this was impossible, they would never break the spell . . . Yuuri was gone forever.

Ok, maybe that was _a bit_ dramatic.

He sighed, hoping his brother was having more luck at the Castle; hoping he was happy there. Hoping The Beast was treating him well . . .

Minako glared at him again; apparently he couldn’t even wistfully exhale in his own workshop!

He pushed himself sharply up from the workbench; stretching his legs would do him some good. One was still stiff and sore from the wolf bite. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Minako demanded, “You’re not making me do this all by myself!”

“Just give me five minutes! _Mercy_!” Phichit snapped, sounding _very_ unlike himself.

He hated it; the angsty, irritable person he was becoming.

Minako glared again.

“Just . . .” Phichit huffed, trying to be lenient, “let’s . . . let’s _both_ just take a break, alright?”

Minako scowled and dumped her current stack of pages back onto the table; it landed with a loud ‘thud’ and toppled over, pages sliding across the workbench and falling off the sides, fanning out like a deck of cards. 

“I _hate_ this,” Minako spat, as unladylike as Phichit had ever seen her.

“I hate it too,” Phichit agreed sympathetically. His voice was barely a whisper.

They weren’t talking about the paper work.

Minako sighed and stood up with a stretch. She rubbed her eyes wearily, before turning them back to the workbench.

“Only 2 more stacks . . .” She observed sadly.

They had been returning the Tax Forms as they finished with them; making it less likely for any of the files to go missing and in turn, get them caught. They had started with dozens of stacks, and now only two remained.

For Phichit, it was both a relief and a letdown . . . if they didn’t find anything in those last two piles . . .

No, he couldn’t think like that. He wouldn’t.

“We’re . . . we’re _certain_ that there was nothing in any of the files we already put back?” He asked timidly.

Minako looked like she was about to snap, then stopped herself with a deep breath.

“I’m _certain_ ,” she replied gently, “We double . . . no, _triple_ checked them all, remember?”

Phichit nodded, though he couldn’t help but worry.

“We’ll find something, Phichit. I promise,” Minako laid a comforting hand on his shoulder; a sign of solidarity.

“You’re right,” Phichit agreed with a confidence he did not feel.

“Come on, back to it, then?” Minako encouraged.

Phichit nodded again, grateful that he was not alone.

The two turned back to the bench and then stopped, looking over the mess of Minako’s sprawling papers.

Minako sighed, “I’ll take these ones,” she offered dully, gathering up some rouge pages which had fluttered to the floor.

Phichit drifted to the other side of the bench, bending over to help corral the wild parchment.

Soft scuffling filled the workshop as they worked; the gentle ‘ _swish-crunch_ ’ of loose pages cutting through the fog of their exhaustion.

Phichit grabbed up the final form with a ‘ _whoosh_ ’, crinkling the corner in his fist.

He stopped in his tracks.

“Hey . . . Minako . . .”

The Tutor popped up on the other side of the bench, the papers in her hand still scattered and disheveled. She said nothing, just raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

Phichit squinted at the page in his hand, “What is . . . I mean, _where_ is . . . have you ever heard of a place called . . . Niker . . . Niikiver . . .” he shook his head in frustration, “. . . Ni-ki-for-ov Manor?”

“Um . . .” Minako furrowed her brow, “I . . . I don’t _think_ so. Why?”

“That’s what it says here,” Phichit extended the page towards his accomplice, “look”

Minako snatched the page from his hands, scanning it quickly.

“Nikiforov . . .” She repeated slowly, scrutinizing the page, “Hm. Sounds Northern. I don’t . . . I don’t _think_ I recognize it,”

Phichit held his breath, “Wasn’t . . . wasn’t this Province once Northern territory?” he asked haltingly.

“. . . maybe?”

“ _Maybe_?” Phichit teased, “You’re the tutor, you should know this!”

“I can't remember off the top of my head . . .” Minako objected defensively, “I’ll . . . I’ll have to look it up!”  

“Check the pages! See if it shows up anywhere else!” Phichit suggested eagerly.

Both he and Minako began to rifle through the leaflets in their hands.

“It’s here!”

“Here too!”

“And on this one!”

Phichit and Minako quickly gathered up the rest of the pages and immediately set about putting them back in order.

“There. _Right there_! That’s where it changes,” Minako stated proudly, her delicate finger pinned to the scrawled line of text, “This year shows all taxes going to the Capitol . . . but _this one_ . . . the year _just before_ . . .”

“Nikiforov Manor,” Phichit finished softly. His stomach flip-flopped violently; he thought he might be sick with excitement. “That’s . . . that’s only about 20 years ago . . .” he gasped, scanning the dates next to the destinations.

“. . . 20 years ago,” Minako repeated wistfully. She shook her head, “And every year before that . . .”

“But . . . if this was only 20 years ago . . . wouldn’t we remember our taxes going somewhere other than the capitol?” Phichit pressed, “Well . . . maybe not _me_. I was just a baby back then, but you –”

Minako narrowed her eyes in warning

“– you . . . are a brilliant, worldly woman,” Phichit amended quickly, “Wouldn’t you remember something like that?”

Minako swallowed hard.

“. . . not if the _spell_ made me forget . . .”

They looked to one another with wide eyes; simultaneously understanding the implications. 

“. . . Mercy,” Phichit breathed softly.

“. . . I think I might be sick,” Minako muttered.

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

Both Minako and Phichit jumped at the unexpected sound.

Someone was at the door.

“Who the _hell_ –?” Minako cursed.

“Open up, _Tinker_! _Your good friend J.J. needs to speak with you_!”

 

*****

 

“Mmm . . . nnn . . .”

Yuuri groaned weakly in the emptiness of the Library.

It was warm . . . so warm . . . his neck felt damp, his scalp sticky and sweaty.  Something sharp dug into the side of his face. Everything was dark.

Had he fallen asleep?

And . . . and what was that smell?

Like something . . . burning . . .

Yuuri jolted awake, quickly adjusting his skewed glasses; he gazed in horror at the sight before him.

The world was bathed in red and orange and yellow, sweltering flames licking their way out of the enormous fireplace, creeping ever closer . . .

Yuuri let out a terrified squeak, reflexively retracting his legs up onto the chair; his knees curling into his chest.

_When did it . . ? How had it . . ?_

No. It was too close. _Too close_. It was too hot. He couldn’t breathe . . . and that smell . . .

That _smell_.

Yuuri’s stomach tightened; instantly nauseated. His fingers dug painfully into the toasty arms of the chair, gripping them in a frenzied vice.

No, no, no, no, no . . . this _isn’t_ . . . this _wasn’t_ . . .

He was fine. He was _fine_. He just had to take a deep breath. _He was fine_.

Yuuri’s head swam with each inhale; the air reeking of smoke. It made him want to retch. He wrenched his eyes shut and held his breath, petrified. 

“No . . . stop . . . make it stop . . . make it _stop_ . . .” small, unbidden whimpers scurried past his lips.

A soft weight bumped his chair, accompanied by a little whine.

Makkachin.

Makkachin was here . . . Makkachin was here and he was _safe_. The library wasn’t _on fire_ . . . it was just the fire place. Just . . . _just the fire place_.

He was _fine_.

“No . . . no, no, no, no, no . . . make it _stop_ . . . _please_ . . .”

He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes.

“Arf! Arf, arf!” Makkachin snuffled in closer, rocking the chair ever-so-slightly as she tried to jump up next to Yuuri.

“I . . . I _can’t_ . . . _Makka, I can’t_ . . .” Yuuri wailed, tears now rolling down his cheeks.

It was so hot. _Too hot_. Too much smoke. He couldn’t breathe . . . _he couldn’t breathe_ . . .

Eventually, the soft weight against the chair ceased its assault; Makkachin let out another small whine. 

“Make it stop . . . _makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop_ . . .” 

_“Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, awoo!”_

_‘Clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’ . . ._

Makkachin was leaving; racing towards the Library doors in a frantic fit of howls.

Yuuri squeezed the chair tighter.

Makka was gone. _Makka was gone_.

Shit . . . _shit_!

Ok . . . that was fine. He was _fine_. _The Library wasn’t on fire_.

It was _just the fireplace_.

All he had to do was stand up and leave.

Just . . . just open his eyes and stand up and leave . . . and he would be _fine_.

Yuuri slowly forced his eyes open, holding his breath as best as he could.

_Red orange yellow too bright too bright too hot too hot can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t . . ._

Yuuri’s eyes snapped shut with a shaky exhale.

Tears continued to trail down his cheeks; sweat began to drip down his brow.

“Make it _stop_ . . . _please, someone make it stop_ . . .”

Yuuri braced himself more securely; he . . . he would just have to wait. Sit tight and wait it out. Try not to breathe. Try not to look. Try to calm down. Just sit and wait. It was just the fireplace. It couldn’t burn forever. It couldn’t. It couldn’t. It . . .

_‘Clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’, ‘clack’ . . ._

_“Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf, awoo! Arf, arf, arf, arf!”_

. . . Makkachin?

“Yuuri? YUURI!”

Suddenly the air around him cooled ever-so-slightly, a massive shadow blocking out the scorching flames beyond his barricaded eyes.

“Yuuri!”

Yuuri sucked in a fluttering breath; everything still stank of smoke.

“Yuuri? What’s wrong? Are you ok? What happened?”

Too many questions. Too hot. Too loud.

“Yuuri? YUURI? _Answer me, Yuuri_!”

No. No. Can’t. That voice. Too loud. Too hot. Too Loud. Too hot. Too hot. Can’t . . . _can’t breathe can’t speak can’t move can’t_ . . .

“Arrrrwwww,” A loud whimper from Makkachin.

“Mmmmm-ma-make i-it st-st-st-st-stop,” Yuuri managed at last.

“What? Yuuri I can’t . . . I don’t . . . make _what_ stop?”

“. . . f-f-f-f-f-f-f-ire . . . m-make it st-stop . . .”

The cool shade vanished abruptly, dousing Yuuri once more in the sweltering light.

_Schwing-swoosh-flutter-whoosh-stamp-stamp-stamp-stamp-crunch-creeeeeeeeeek_

With each sound the light grew dimmer; the world cooling bit-by-bit.

It still smelled like smoke; like ash and fear and death.

“Yuuri . . ?”

Yuuri couldn’t answer, all his energy focused on sucking air back into his lungs. Great, heaving gasps rushed past his lips as he clamored for calm, rattling him to his core.

“ . . . Yuuri . . . it . . . it’s out now. It’s . . .”

Yuuri nodded mutely; he just . . . he just needed a minute.

His lip quivered and he bit it instinctively, residual shock thrumming through him in waves as adrenaline continued to roar through his veins.

“. . . Yuuri . . ?”

He strained to open his eyes, at last coming face to face with a terrified Viktor.

He was kneeling on the floor in front of the chair, eyeing Yuuri with concern and wary uncertainty, like he was expecting him to explode at any second.

Shit. _Shit fuck damn it_.

 He . . . he couldn't let Viktor see him like this. He couldn't let Viktor come to his rescue. Not this time.

He pried his fingers slowly off the arms of the chair, hands shaking as he pulled them close to his chest; trying to be as small as possible . . . trying to disappear.

Tears tingled at the edge of his vision; he quickly tucked his chin to his chest, burying his face behind his knees. His glasses pressed painfully on the bridge of his nose. A great wet sob escaped before he could stop it.

“Yuuri . . .” Viktor cooed softly, gently patting the top of his knee.

“ _Don't_ ,” Yuuri bit out sharply; the word muffled, but the meaning clear as day.

Viktor yanked his paw away as if it had been burned; Yuuri hoped his shame would kill him right then and there.

Makkachin whined again.

“I . . . I’m sorry, Yuuri . . . I’m not very good with people crying . . .”

“I’m not crying,” Yuuri lied, slowly starting to unfurl himself, refusing to meet Viktor’s searching gaze.

He had to get out of there.

“. . . just tell me what to do,” Viktor offered, his voice on the edge of breaking.

Yuuri shivered, experimentally stretching out his limbs; Viktor stood to give him some space.

Yuuri swallowed hard. Everything felt _off_ . . . heavy and . . . _wrong_ ; like he wasn't in his own body anymore. It was almost worse than the panic attack itself.

He needed to go. He needed to go now.

“That’s okay. It’s . . . it’s nothing. It’s fine. I’m fine,” he rambled, slowly pushing himself to his feet, little tremors still wracking his limbs. He felt like he was floating.

By the look on Viktor’s face, he clearly did not believe him.

“Yuuri,” he pressed gently, “Please . . . tell me what’s wrong . . .”

“Nothing, it’s okay now. It’s fine. It’s good. Thank you though. I’m alright. I’m fine,” Yuuri started to back away, when something rich and regal caught his eye.

Viktor’s claret cape was stuffed into the fireplace; crumpled up and doubled over, singed and covered in ash and reeking of smoke. 

He had put out the fire . . . by smothering it with his favourite cape.

Yuuri’s eyes filled with tears once again.

Viktor followed his sullen gaze.

“I . . . I didn't have anything else,” he explained gently.

Yuuri didn't hear him. “Your . . . your cape,” he whimpered helplessly.

“It’s just a cape,” Viktor assured him quickly.

“Your . . . favourite cape,”

“It’s _just_ a cape, Yuuri,”

“But . . . but . . .”

“It’s alright. I’ll get another one, Yuuri”

“I . . . I . . . I’m s-so s-s-sorry,”

“Yuuri!” Viktor moved to touch him again, and then quickly thought better of it, “Yuuri . . . it’s . . . it’s just thread and fabric . . . it’s not that special. You are _much_ more important than –”

“ _I’m sorry_!” Yuuri wailed, turning on his heel and taking off towards the Library doors; brain foggy and body drained.

Viktor’s voice echoed after him.

“Wait! Yuuri! Stop! It’s . . . it’s alright! Please!”

But Yuuri did not stop, he ran from the Library, back towards the safety of his chamber, sprinting the entire way.

 

*****

 

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

“Hide the forms!” Phichit ordered, adrenaline racing through his veins.

No, no, no . . . this was _not_ happening. _Not now_!

Minako scrambled to gather up the delicate pages, quickly sweeping them off the workbench with the other stacks and dropping them into an empty barrel.

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

“Tinker! _TINKER_!”

Phichit jolted, then took a deep breath before responding.

“Yea, yea, I’m coming! Keep your shirt on!” he hollered angrily.

He slowly made his way over to the door, forcing himself to stay calm. His leg twinged a bit when he put weight on it, and he still had a bit of a limp, but he no longer needed his crutches.

Phichit took another deep breath, steeling his resolve; he had already faced down a pack of wolves, after all . . . surely he could stand up to _J.J._

Yuuri was _counting_ on him; he couldn’t let his brother down. 

He leaned all his weight on the door, hauling it open after one last look at Minako. She had covered the barrel with some scrap wood and was now sitting back at the workbench, idly playing with her hair; the very picture of innocence.

The barn door squeaked horrifically as it rolled on its rail; Phichit made a mental note to oil it later.

J.J.’s crimson visage came into view. Isabella hovered close behind.

Typical.

“What do _you_ want?” Phichit snapped venomously.

“Where. Is. Yuuri?” J.J. demanded through gritted teeth, his words slow and deliberate.

“This _again_?” Phichit sighed in exasperation, “We _already told you_ , he has –”

“NOBODY HAS HAY FEVER FOR THREE WEEKS!” J.J. roared, forcing his way into the workshop. Phichit stumbled as he pushed past.

Isabella hung back by the door like the last time; however, _un_ like last time, she did not lean lazily against the frame. Instead she remained alert and focused, her eyes never once leaving J.J.; watching him like a wild animal.

“You lied to me,” J.J. growled, his furious gaze boring into Phichit. He was quieter now, but his tone had a dangerous slant to it.

Phichit didn’t give an inch, “I’d like to see you _prove it_ ,”

J.J. savagely snatched up a broken chair leg from the massive pile of debris, holding it menacingly in his meaty fist, “I want the truth _RIGHT NOW_ , you little – ”

“ _How many times do I have to tell you NOT to touch ANYTHING in my Workshop_?” Phichit hissed, staring J.J. down with all the fury in his lithe little body.

J.J.’s face contorted with rage as he brandished the chair leg.

Phichit tensed, closing his eyes and bracing for impact . . .

. . . but the blow never came.

Phichit cautiously blinked his eyes open; just in time to see Isabella lunge forward and yank the makeshift club right out of J.J.’s hand.

She said nothing, just glared at the other hunter, giving him a small shove as she returned the chair leg to the scrap pile; tossing it roughly on top the other detritus with a loud ‘ _clang_ ’.

J.J.’s eyes never left Phichit.

The air was thick and suffocating in the aftermath.

Phichit gaped at Isabella, Isabella glared at J.J., J.J. scowled at Phichit. Minako raised an eyebrow and sat up straighter, calmly re-adjusting her skirt as she did so.

Eventually, Isabella smacked J.J. lightly on the arm, a signal that they should leave. When J.J. didn’t move, she tugged sharply on his lapel.

Still, J.J. did not move.

“You _lied_ to me,” He accused softly.

“Yea, _I wonder why_ ,” Phichit scoffed sarcastically.

“I want the _truth_ ,” J.J. demanded miserably, “and I’m _not_ leaving until I get it”

Isabella rolled her eyes, looking to Phichit with a weary expression that said, “Just tell him so we can go already”

Stubbornly digging his heels into the packed earth beneath him, Phichit refused to give an inch, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Phichit,” Minako beckoned; her tone was light and unhurried, as if Phichit hadn’t almost just been beaten to a pulp, “I think we’ve had enough trouble for one day. Let’s just tell him, shall we?”

Phichit’s jaw dropped; gaping at Minako in disbelief.

Minako just smiled back; a clever little curl of the lip.

. . . oh.

J.J.’s gaze finally left Phichit, and had now turned on the cordial tutor suspiciously.

Phichit looked from the gracious Minako to the weary Isabella to the volatile J.J.; he didn’t know what Minako had planned . . . but he had no choice but to trust her. 

“Fine,” he sighed rigidly. His arms dropped back to his sides, and he slowly limped back over to the workbench to rest his aching leg; pushing his nerves down once more and praying that J.J. could not hear the hammering of his heart.

“ _You lied to me_ ,” J.J. accused once again; this time addressing Minako.

“Yes, J.J., we lied to you,” Minako confessed bluntly; not at all repentant or contrite.

Phichit tried to stay calm.

Trust Minako. _Trust Minako_ . . .

“I knew it!” J.J. cried victoriously, “Yuuri doesn’t have hay fever! He _never_ had hay fever!”

“No. Yuuri never had hay fever,” Minako confirmed calmly.

“Then, where is he?” J.J. demanded once more, “If he’s been _hurt_ , I swear –”

“Yuuri is _just fine_ ,” Minako interrupted coldly, her words frosting over with impatience.

“Then _where is he_?” J.J. grit out slowly. Isabella never took her eyes off him.

“Yuuri is gone,” Minako answered candidly.

Phichit’s hands curled into fists.

_What was she doing?_

“G-gone?” J.J. stuttered, “Gone _where_?”

Phichit held his breath.

“To The City, of course,” Minako replied simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “honestly, J.J. where else would he go?”

Phichit let out the breath he had been holding. He still wasn’t entirely certain where Minako was going with this, but all that mattered now was that J.J. bought it. 

J.J. deflated ever-so-slightly, “Well . . . when is he coming back?” he asked desperately. A flash of sympathy lit up Isabella’s eyes.

“Hopefully never,” Minako answered jovially.

“Wh-what? How can you –?” J.J. blustered.

“Because,” Minako interrupted sharply, “Yuuri has gone to The City to follow his dream of being a dancer and _I for one_ want him to succeed,”

J.J. opened and closed his mouth indignantly, working to find his words; gaping like a big floppy fish.

“You couldn’t have just told us all this in the first place?” Isabella droned wearily.

“Yuuri asked us to keep it a secret,” Minako explained, coloring her voice with melancholy, “You see . . . he only has enough funds to support himself for three months in The City . . . if he doesn’t make it by then . . .”

“He’ll lose his chance. He’ll have to come home,” Phichit finished morosely; catching on to Minako’s game, “He, um . . . he didn’t want anyone to know. He didn’t want to get everyone’s hopes up, just in case things . . . didn’t work out,”

“He’s always been a nervous guy,” Minako added wistfully, “so, we promised not to say anything,”

“Yuuri and I . . . we’ve been saving up for _years_ ,” Phichit piled on, drenching his tone in heartache, “I just . . . I wish I could have given him more time. I wish . . . that I had done more.”

Ok, so maybe he wasn’t _really_ acting now; not entirely. 

Phichit wrung his hands sadly.

It was perfect, in a devastating kind of way; if he and Minako were able to break the spell and bring Yuuri home, they could just make it seem like things hadn’t worked out in The City. But . . . if they _couldn’t_ break the spell . . . if Yuuri _never_ came back . . . then they could say that he had made it, that he had gotten his big break and was living his dream at last . . .

And then . . . at least they could _pretend_ to be happy that he wasn’t here.

Minako cleared her throat demurely, snapping Phichit back to reality.

“I’m actually quite surprised you didn’t know all of this already, J.J.” Minako drawled savagely, “Considering your . . . _feelings_ for Yuuri, I had assumed that the two of you were _very close_.”

J.J.’s face crumpled in shame. He looked so much like a kicked puppy . . . Phichit almost felt sorry for him.

 _Almost_.

“He . . . he’s really gone?” J.J. whispered, broken and defeated.

“Yea,” Phichit murmured, “he’s really gone”

J.J. closed his eyes reflexively, and let out a deep sigh.

“Alright,” he relented at last, his voice cracking on the word. With a nod to Phichit and Minako, he turned to leave. Isabella frowned.

“Wait! J.J.!” Phichit gasped suddenly.

The Hunter turned back around to face him slowly.

“Don’t . . . don’t tell anyone, alright?” Phichit begged, “Please? For Yuuri?”

It wouldn’t do for J.J. to go spreading their lie to the whole town, after all.

“Yea,” J.J. agreed sadly, “And . . . I, uh . . . I’m sorry,”

Phichit visibly flinched, but caught himself before the cringe spread all the way to his face, “Yea . . . yea, thanks” he muttered.

J.J. quickly turned back around, practically fleeing the workshop.

Isabella lingered a moment more.

“For what it’s worth . . .” She sighed, “J.J. really does care about him,”

“I’m sure he does,” Minako replied graciously.

“But _personally_ ,” Isabella continued, “I hope I _never_ see Katsuki Yuuri again,”

Minako huffed a little laugh, “Me either” she agreed, “Not unless I’m in The City”. 

Isabella smiled, then followed J.J.’s earlier path, through the Workshop door and out into the rolling hills beyond.

She slid the barn door closed behind her.

A few moments of tense silence followed, before Phichit let out a heavy sigh, practically collapsing in on himself.

“Thank _mercy_ they bought it,” He murmured quietly. He turned to face Minako, who was still staring at the barn door, as if the hunters might return any second. “You’re brilliant, you know,” Phichit praised sincerely.

Minako shivered, then quickly looked to Phichit with a mischievous grin, “I know” she chirped proudly.

Phichit rolled his eyes playfully; some things never changed.

“What if they go looking for Yuuri in The City?” he quipped, only half-joking

Minako shrugged, “Well, I guess they’re The City’s problem, then” she returned with a chuckle.

Phichit burst out laughing; it felt so good to joke around again, especially since he’d nearly been on the wrong end of a broken chair leg. He really needed to be more careful about provoking J.J.

“Now then . . .” Minako drawled, still smiling “let’s see if we can find anything else on this _Nikiforov Manor_ ”

 

*****

 

The world was gray and muffled; blurred by smoke and tears and shame.

Yuuri lay in bed, curled up on his side on top of the covers, staring blankly at the far wall with the bookshelf and the cozy blue chair and the little white marble fireplace. Everything felt numb and heavy; and though he was now thinking clearly, back in his own head after his panic attack, the guilt of his earlier humiliation thoroughly pinned him in place. 

He’d been lying here for, what? Minutes? Hours?

He supposed it didn’t matter.

The sky outside his windows was starting to grow dark.

Georgi was thankfully asleep; the fewer witnesses, the better.

He bitterly wondered how long _this_ little incident would take to become the latest castle gossip.

_‘Tap’, ‘tap’, ‘tap’._

Yuuri ignored the soft knocking at his door; he couldn’t bring himself to face Viktor.

Not now; maybe not ever.

_‘Tap’, ‘tap’ . . . ‘tap’._

Each knock was like a nail to his heart; hammered into place with shame.

“Oi, Katsudon . . . you awake?”

Oh . . . it wasn’t Viktor at his door after all . . . it was Yuri.

What was he doing here?

Yuuri pushed himself up stiffly, sitting stone-faced on his bed, feet dangling off the side.

He took a deep breath.

“Yea . . . yea, I’m awake. Come in,” he called, as evenly as he could.

The chamber doors slowly swung open, and Yuri rattled in on his little tea-cart.

It was set up beautifully, the shiny silverware all lined up in proper order with a white cloth napkin, crown-folded and propped up on the left. In the middle, a covered plate sat next to a teapot with a matching teacup. A nice, big glass of water stood near the right edge. Above the plate, a cheerful daisy floated in the bottom half of a salt-shaker; an ingenious little makeshift vase.

Yuri rolled to a stop in front of him; the tea-cup looked put-out, as usual.

“. . . Grandpa heard you weren’t at dinner,” he mumbled, by way of explanation.

Yuuri’s heart flooded with both warmth and remorse; he hadn’t realized he’d missed dinner. This . . . this was so kind. He hoped Nikolai hadn’t gone to too much trouble.

“Are you just going to sit there, or are you going to eat?” Yuri drawled impatiently.

Yuuri snapped back to reality, nodding quickly, “Um. Yes. Yes, th-thank you. This is . . . really nice of him,”

Yuri rolled his eyes, “we’ll, yea, he’s not just going to let you starve,” he scoffed.

Yuuri nodded, holding back grateful tears.

“What’s wrong with you?” Yuri drawled, “You’re acting _weird_ ,”

“Ah! It’s nothing, I’m fine,” Yuuri lied, earning himself a glare from the surly teacup.

In an effort to change the subject, Yuuri gingerly reached forward to lift the silver cover off the thick porcelain plate.

“Ah . . . pirozhki!” Yuuri exclaimed, as he eyed the tasty spread; a small smile sneaking onto his face despite his gloomy demeanor.

“Eat,” Yuri commanded gruffly.

“What? Right now?”

“Yes, _now_!”

Yuuri didn’t want to be rude, eating in front of Yuri while he just sat there on the tray; but he also didn’t want to invoke the teacup’s wrath, so he quickly snatched up the topmost pirozhki and took a bite. It was still warm and the fresh-baked pastry smelled _amazing_. 

Yuuri’s eyes lit up, “Hey, there’s rice in here . . . pork and egg too! Wait . . . is this . . ?”

“Da! Grandpa came up with it himself! Aren’t they great?” Yuri opined proudly.

And . . . and was he _smiling_?

He was. Yuri was _actually_ smiling.

“Yea! Vkusno!” Yuuri agreed, gratefully devouring the rest of the pirozhki and immediately picking up a second. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

As he ate, Yuri lounged on the tea cart; his eyes glazing over with boredom. He must have been hanging around so he could take all the dishes back, without making more than one trip.

Yuuri quickly stuffed down the other pirozhki, not wanting to keep the teacup waiting too long. It was a delicate balance, savoring the amazing meal while still consuming it quickly.

He was on his last one when Yuri spoke once more, breaking the awkward silence which had fallen between them.

“So, why did you miss dinner anyway?” He asked, his tone disinterested and flat, “you sick or something?”

Yuuri smirked, “Why? Were you worried about me?” he joked, attempting to deflect from the real issue.

“ _No_ ,” Yuuri huffed, “Just wondering why I had to drag dinner all the way up to your room, that’s all,”

Yuuri had finished the last pirozhki now; swallowing stiffly.

“Um . . . thanks, by the way. I appreciate it,” he replied softly, unfolding the napkin to wipe his fingers.

“What is _with_ you? Why are you being so _weird_?” Yuri demanded, scrutinizing Yuuri more closely, “I mean, you’re _always_ weird, but this is like . . . _weird_ , weird . . . not normal, Katsudon weird”

The words were haughty and imperious, but Yuuri swore there was some concern in there as well.

“It’s nothing,” Yuuri whispered, “Just . . . had a bad day I guess,”

“I figured _that much_ ,” Yuri snapped impatiently, “Viktor’s all sulky too. You assholes get into a fight?”

Yuuri flinched, but didn’t answer; the guilt had returned now, worse than ever.

Viktor’s cape was ruined and it was all Yuuri fault; because he couldn’t keep it together, because he was weak, because he –

“And . . . I heard you burned yourself on the fireplace or something?”

Yuuri closed his eyes and hung his head; so much for keeping this afternoon off the radar.

“I . . . um . . . I mean . . . we’re not fighting . . . exactly,” Yuuri sighed, forcing himself to look at the teacup.

Yuri raised a callous brow, silently ordering the other boy to continue.

“I . . . I fell asleep in the library . . . and when I woke up the . . . the um . . . fireplace was lit, and . . . and I wasn’t expecting it . . . and I . . . panicked,” Yuuri explained numbly; it sounded weak, even to his own ears.

Yuri’s eyes narrowed; he glared at the human for a long, silent minute.

“So . . . what? You’re . . . you’re like, _afraid_ of fire?” he puzzled slowly.

“ _No_ ,” Yuuri shot petulantly, “Not . . . _really_ . . .”

Yuri gaped at him like he had grown another head, “That’s stupid, Katsudon, even for _you_ ,” he huffed derisively.

Yuuri nodded, shamefaced.

Yuri was right; he was weak and stupid and –

“I mean,” Yuri continued with snarky little laugh, “You’re more afraid of _fire_ than _Viktor_? That’s just . . . _weird_ ,” 

Yuuri blinked at the teacup, silent and confused.

“What?” Yuri snapped defensively, “You weren’t afraid to chase your brother into the woods and you weren’t afraid to stay in this creepy castle and you weren’t afraid of being friends with a _gross, disgusting beast_ . . . and somehow you’re _still_ not sick of Viktor’s stupid face yet . . . and it’s just _weird_ that you can do all that, but still be scared of a harmless little _fireplace_ , okay?”

Yuuri let out a shaky laugh; he supposed that was _almost_ a compliment.

“Ugh, what are you doing? Why are you laughing?” Yuri groaned, rolling his eyes.

Yuuri looked back to his indignant companion, “Thanks Yuri,” he said quietly.

“ _Whatever_ , _weirdo_ ” the teacup drawled haughtily, “Just . . . just don’t miss dinner and freak everyone out like that again, okay?”

Yuuri smiled as the teen scowled; the atmosphere now warm and amiable . . . maybe even _friendly_.

“I won’t” Yuuri promised.

“Or if you’re gonna be scared, at least be scared of something that actually makes _sense_ ,” Yuri rambled, “like thunderstorms,”

“. . . _thunderstorms_?” Yuuri asked knowingly, mischievously raising his eyebrows at the little teacup.

Yuri’s eyes went wide with alarm, “Yea. You know . . . like . . . like Beka. _He’s_ the one that’s afraid of thunderstorms. I'm not afraid of _anything_ ,” he quickly corrected.

Yuuri smirked, “ _Otabek_ is afraid of thunderstorms?” he teased, seeing right through Yuri’s lie. 

“Yea, but . . . but don’t say anything to _him_ about it,” Yuri stammered, “He’ll just deny it. Because . . . you know . . . it’s _personal_ ,”

Yuuri relented, taking pity on the little china mug, “I’ll keep it to myself”, he promised.

“Yea . . . yea, you’d better,” Yuri replied tightly, his tough, callous demeanor returning once more. “Anyway, if you’re _finally_ done I’ll take these back to the kitchen,” he muttered.

Yuuri nodded, and the teacup began to depart with a huff.

But when he got to the doorway, the little cart slowed to a stop; Yuri spoke, but did not turn back to face him.

“Hey . . . Katsudon?”

“Yea?”

“You’re . . . you’re fine now, right?”

Yuuri nodded, even though the teen couldn’t see it, “Yea. Yea I am,”

“You could . . . go tell Viktor that. If you want,”

Guilt slapped Yuuri across the face.

“I . . . yea, I know” he agreed sadly.

Yuri paused a moment more, then swiveled around angrily, “Ugh, what’s your problem _now_?” he snapped, facing Yuuri with a full glower.

“Viktor . . . found me in the library and used his cape to put out the fire,” Yuuri confessed, his words rushing together as he spoke.

Yuri raised a skeptical eyebrow, “ _so_?”

Yuuri’s lip quivered, “So . . . it’s . . . it was his favorite cape, and . . . and now it’s ruined and it’s all my fault, and I’m just . . . I don’t know how to . . . I don’t know what to say”

“Oh, _spare me_!” Yuri chastised, rolling his eyes, “You know the guy owns a _castle_ , right? He’s not going to cry over one stupid cape when he has like, _a billion more_ in his closet. Yeesh,”

Yuuri snorted, but didn’t say anything in response. It wasn’t _just_ the cape bothering him of course . . . but he had to admit the teen certainly did have a _unique_ way of looking at things.

“Ugh. You two _idiots_ are perfect for each other,” Yuuri scoffed, “you’re both _completely hopeless_ ,”

Yuuri was about to retort, but . . . something about the way the teacup had phrased his sentence nestled warmly inside his chest. He and Viktor were “ _perfect for each other_ ” . . . it was _strange_ to hear, but also kind of . . . nice.

Even if they _were_ both “hopeless idiots”.

Yuuri supposed maybe he _was_ being a bit foolish.

“Just . . . just go talk to Viktor. Or don’t. Or _whatever_. I don’t care,” Yuri finally declared with a little huff, rolling out of Yuuri’s chamber and into the hall, the towering door swinging closed gently behind him.

The latch on the door caught with a soft _‘click’_ and Yuuri was left alone in the silence.

He sat there rigidly for a minute, digesting the pirozhkis and Yuri’s advice.

He knew he couldn’t hide from Viktor forever. It wasn’t fair to him; he deserved to know that Yuuri was okay now.

He deserved to know what had happened.

And why.

All he could do now was trust Viktor to understand.

 

*****

 

Viktor sat alone in his dark, empty parlor.

His leg bounced rapidly, releasing his pent-up feelings in a hail of nervous energy. His ears lay against his mane, flat and apprehensive; his muzzle sporting a worried pout.

Bathed in the soft glow of his own fireplace, he stood up suddenly; reflexively pushing himself out of his chair and sending shadows sprawling across the walls.

He _had to_ go check on Yuuri; he _had to know_ if he was okay.

Viktor immediately sat down.

No . . . no, just give him space. Give him time. Let him be.

Maybe he should send someone _else_ to go check on Yuuri . . . maybe Masumi would, or Mila . . .

No . . . no, just give him _space_. Give him _time_.

Unless . . . unless Yuuri _wanted_ Viktor to come to him? _Needed_ Viktor to come to him?

He shot out of his chair once more, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.

No . . . He couldn’t go to Yuuri. He didn’t even know what was _wrong_. He would just ruin everything again.

Memories of the past afternoon flashed before his eyes; Makkachin racing to find him, wailing like a banshee as she led  him to the Library . . . and . . .

Seeing Yuuri there, his body so tense, teary eyes closed, murmuring in fear . . .

Viktor had handled it so poorly; he hadn’t been thinking clearly, he had just panicked and made everything worse. Stupid.

And then Yuuri was crying again; apologizing and running away.

Why?

Viktor stopped, gazing into his own little fire, past the singed grate at the leaping flames beyond.

He didn’t even know what had happened. What had scared Yuuri so badly? Was . . . was he _afraid_ of fire? How was Viktor supposed to know . . ?

He scrunched his brows, thinking hard.

The feast . . . on the first night . . . hadn’t Yuuri had turned back to blow out the candles in the dining room? And on the day that Viktor had first shown Yuuri the ballroom . . . hadn’t he specifically declined to have a fire in this very parlor?

How . . . how had Viktor not noticed that?

Now that he thought about it, he didn’t think Yuuri had _ever_ requested a fire . . . and he had _never_ asked for any wood or tinder for the fireplace in his own chambers. He never chose seats near candles or fireplaces; never stood too close if he could help it . . . and, _sometimes_ , when Chris ignited his own enchanted flames unexpectedly, Yuuri seemed to flinch away.

They were small things . . . nearly imperceptible details. But he _should have_ realized . . . he _should have_ seen . . . he _should have_ done _more_ . . . he _should have_ kept Yuuri _safe_ . . . he _should have protected him_ . . .

He deserved every nightmare he got.

_‘Tap’ . . . ‘tap’, ‘tap’ . . ._

A soft, reticent knock sounded from the door.

“Come in” Viktor called absently, still ruminating on his failures.

“I . . . ah . . . I thought I might find you in here,”

Yuuri.

Viktor quickly swiveled around to face him; a thousand questions perched on the tip of his tongue. But as he took in Yuuri’s sullen eyes and heavy shoulders, there was only one answer he cared about.

“Yuuri . . . How are you?”

The words were gentle and sincere, but not laced with pity; as if Yuuri had merely recovered from a cold, and not . . . whatever this afternoon was . . .

“Better,” Yuuri answered quietly, wringing his hands. Viktor wanted nothing more than to take them in his own.

Yuuri continued, soft and determined “I just wanted to . . . um, apologize. And . . . and to thank you. For earlier,” he murmured.

Viktor shook his head vigorously, “No, Yuuri, I . . . I’m happy to . . . you don’t have to apologize for anything,” he insisted.

“I . . . I do, actually,” Yuuri replied, finally looking Viktor in the eye, “I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, about . . . everything. I’m sorry your cape is ruined . . . and I’m sorry for snapping at you and . . . running away like that. I’m sorry for not being honest with you . . . and . . . and I’m sorry if I . . . worried you . . .”

“Y-Yuuri . . .”

“Is it alright if . . . I mean, I think I need to . . . can we . . . talk about it?”

Viktor’s face softened, he felt like he might cry any second, “Of course we can,” he whispered.

Yuuri took a deep breath and nodded resolutely. Viktor turned to take a seat, only to be greeted by his own roaring fireplace.  

“Uh, I can . . . I’ll just . . . um . . . put this out . . .” He offered uncertainly.

Yuuri was beside him now; staring at the flames along with him.

“No,” Yuuri quietly declined, “It’s okay,”

And . . . and he seemed to mean it. He was breathing normally, he wasn't shaking or stuttering or flinching away. He seemed to be at peace.

Yuuri nodded for Viktor to sit, so he did; sinking slowly into his magenta armchair. Yuuri sat across from him on the plum coloured bench; on the far side, away from the fire.

He . . . he really _seemed_ alright, but . . .

“Are . . . are you certain you wouldn't like me to . . ?” Viktor let the question hang, unfinished.

“I’m certain,” Yuuri affirmed, more confidently this time, “It’s . . . small. And the grate is up . . . and I’m . . . prepared for it . . .

Viktor nodded, deferring to Yuuri’s judgement.

If Yuuri said he could handle it, then Viktor believed him.

The sweet boy continued on, “. . . and . . . and you’re here with me . . . so . . .”

Viktor nearly crumbled.

They sat in silence for a minute; Viktor trying not to push, wanting to let Yuuri start so he could follow the other’s lead. He was acutely aware just how far out of his element he was now.

At last, Yuuri spoke.

 “I . . . um, sometimes . . . sometimes I get these . . . the healer called them ‘panic attacks’. It’s . . . it’s just the way that my body sometimes reacts when I . . . feel like I’m in danger. When it happens, I can't calm myself down . . .  I can't really think straight, I . . . my body just physically responds . . . and that’s what happened this afternoon,”

Viktor mulled over Yuuri’s confession for a moment, choosing his next words carefully, “Does it . . . is it painful? Are you hurt? Do you . . . need . . . anything?”

To be honest, he still didn't quite understand . . . Viktor held his breath, hoping he had not said anything upsetting.

Yuuri’s face softened slightly, a bit of the tension fading. Had he been bracing for a rejection?

“I’m not . . . injured or anything like that, no” He explained slowly, “I mean . . . they’re not _pleasant_ , but they won’t . . . I don't need a doctor or anything. Mostly when I get them I just . . . feel like I can't breathe. My heart races and I can't really speak or control my thoughts . . . and sometimes I feel nauseated or dizzy. But they don't usually last for too long, not for me anyway . . . and once it passes, I’m . . . I’m mostly fine. Usually just . . . embarrassed. I . . . I actually don't get them very often anymore either. Sometimes my body just decides to react like I’m in peril, even if I’m not. It’s just . . . the way I am?”

Viktor nodded, relieved that Yuuri really was going to be alright.

Physically anyway; the beautiful boy’s face was still drawn in a deep frown. Something nervous stirred in Viktor’s gut.

“So . . . so this afternoon you had a . . . panic attack . . . because of the fire?” He asked cautiously. 

“Well . . . yes and no,” Yuuri replied honestly, “I . . . I fell asleep in the Library . . . and then when I woke up it was just . . . there. I wasn't expecting it. I . . . I didn't even light it, I just opened my eyes and . . .”

Yuuri stopped, his voice breaking on the last word; Viktor wanted to reach out and hold him, but thought better of it, remembering how Yuuri had pushed him away earlier. Right now, he needed space; Yuuri would come back to him when he was ready.  

After a visible breath, Yuuri continued, “I . . . I think it also happened because I . . . I was thinking a lot about my sister today,”

Viktor’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. He couldn't recall ever hearing about a sister before. That seemed . . . strange. Yuuri talked about Phichit all the time . . . so why had he never mentioned his sister until now?  

“You . . . have a sister?” Viktor prompted gently.

Yuuri blinked hard a couple of times; it looked like he was trying to hold back tears.

“ _Had_ ,” he quietly rasped.

Viktor felt his stomach plummet; the air was knocked from his lungs as he finally pieced everything together.  

“Oh . . . Yuuri . . . my sympathies,” He managed; comforting and awkward all at once.

Yuuri sniffled quietly, “Her name is Mari” he croaked.

“What happ–” Viktor caught himself abruptly, before he accidentally plunged Yuuri headlong into heartache, “I mean . . . do you want talk about what happened?”

Yuuri was silent for a few moments, gathering his thoughts.

“We . . . we don't have to – ”

“No, it’s alright,” Yuuri insisted gently, “I . . . want to. If . . . if you do,”

“I do,” Viktor confirmed softly.

Yuuri made him feel things he never had before; joy and wonder, guilt and fear, and now . . . sympathy and sorrow. He wanted to give something back . . . give _anything_ back. If Yuuri wanted to talk, then Viktor wanted to listen.

The room was quiet, save for the crackling fire. At length, Yuuri began to speak.

“When we were little . . . Mari and Phichit and I . . . we had this . . . ‘secret clubhouse’. It wasn't actually a secret . . . or even a clubhouse really . . . we just used to play up in the hayloft of our old barn all the time. We would sit up there together and read stories and build forts and play pretend . . .” Yuuri swallowed hard, steeling himself before continuing, “The summer before my ninth birthday was . . . really bad. Really hot and dry . . . it was practically a drought. We didn't really understand that though. We were just kids . . . Mari was fourteen. Phichit was only five. One day we were just . . . playing up in the hayloft like always . . .”

He paused, taking a few deep, shuddering breaths. Viktor nearly told him to stop, to not push himself so hard, but Yuuri was already pressing on; determined to tell Mari’s story.

“It was fine at first . . . all I can remember is that it suddenly got really . . . hot . . . and stuffy, and it . . . it smelled terrible . . . and then, out of nowhere, Mari started screaming that we had to go. We had to get out. Phichit and I didn't . . . we didn't realize . . . we didn't understand. So she opened the hayloft door . . . and right outside the barn, there was this . . . grass fire. This . . . this _huge_ grass fire . . . and the barn was already catching. It was so old and the wood was so dry . . . and it was just . . . full of hay and timber and . . . and that’s why everything had gotten so hot . . . it was stuffy because of the smoke. It _stank_ because of the _smoke_.

So . . . so we all scrambled to get out, and Mari made me and Phichit both go down the ladder before her. And the whole time she just kept yelling at us to be careful and stay low and go faster and we finally . . . made it out. But once we were outside, everything was still on fire and it kept getting closer and closer and Phichit and I . . .  we just . . . ran for it.

It wasn't until we were all the way back home that we realized she wasn't with us.

I don't know if . . . if maybe her skirt got caught on something, or if her foot slipped and got trapped between the bales . . . but she just . . . wasn't there.

We screamed for our parents, just . . . screamed and screamed and screamed. Somehow they figured out what was going on, and then _my_ dad took off running and _Phichit’s_ dad took off running and our moms . . . they made us stay there in the cottage with them. They wouldn’t let us go back for her no matter how much we cried. I think . . . I think they probably already knew . . .”

Yuuri fell silent once more; but his eyes were dry, his hands were still, and his breath was even. The fire snapped softy in the voiceless vacuum of the parlor.

Viktor quickly blinked away a few traitorous tears of his own; he couldn't break down now. Not when Yuuri needed him.

But . . . he couldn't find any words. He wasn't good with things like this.

Instead, he slowly extended his paw; Yuuri leaned in closer and took it with a gentle squeeze.

And that is how they remained; silent and heartbroken, holding on to one another in the luminous glow of the docile orange flames.

“You must miss her very much,” Viktor offered at last.

“Yea,” Yuuri confided, “I do,”

Viktor slowly released Yuuri’s hand, allowing him to pull back to where he was comfortable. Yuuri retracted, ever-so-slightly, letting a small shiver overtake him as he did so.

“Will you . . . be alright?” Viktor asked tenderly, still taking stumbling steps towards becoming a better confidant. He felt awkward an unsteady; unworthy of Yuuri’s faith and trust.

Yuuri nodded, glancing at the fire, “I will be,” he answered resolutely.

“Is there anything I can do?” Viktor pressed tentatively, “Do you want me to . . . talk to the staff? Tell them not to leave any fires going?”

“Ah. That’s alright . . .” Yuuri assured him, “I’m . . . I’m sure whoever lit the fireplace in the Library was only trying to be kind. Maybe I looked cold, just . . . asleep on the chair like that . . .”

Viktor nodded; Yuuri was always so gracious.

“Besides,” Yuuri added, “I barely ever have panic attacks anymore . . . and I used to get them all the time. I’m usually better at . . . coping. Today was just . . . hard, somehow. But . . . but I don’t want people to think that I’m . . .   _weak_ or something . . .”

Viktor acquiesced with what he hoped was a comforting smile, “You aren’t a weak person, Yuuri. Nobody who knows you would ever think that,” he proceeded tentatively, “I mean, you . . . you manage so well that I . . . unfortunately I didn't even realize that you had an . . . aversion to fire . . .”

Viktor hoped, once again, that he had not said anything wrong.

“Yea . . . I don’t like to let it . . . interfere,” Yuuri conceded, “I mean . . . It would be hard to go through life like that . . . being afraid of something I use every day. I mean, fire . . . it’s necessary . . . for light . . . for heat. Over the years I’ve just . . . learned to accept it. The fear, the panic attacks . . . they might be a part of me . . . but I can’t let them keep me from things I love. Or people I love. So I take precautions and do the best I can . . . and it’s gotten a little bit easier . . . with time,”

Yuuri truly was the most valiant person Viktor knew. How he envied the sweet boy’s perseverance; his drive and stamina and zest for life . . . so unlike his own faulty temperament. If only Viktor had Yuuri’s bravery . . . then his own fears, his own _shortcomings_ might be less paralyzing.

Perhaps, had he been more like Yuuri, he would have broken the spell by now. 

Viktor was so choked up he couldn't speak; instead, he nodded wordlessly, inviting his companion to continue.

“It . . . It used to terrify Phichit, actually . . . the panic attacks,” Yuuri admitted, “back when we were younger they were really bad. The first time I had one . . . I . . . I actually thought I was dying. But now I’ve learned how to manage . . . mostly,” he uttered a small, self-deprecating chuckle.

Viktor could hardly stand it; he just wanted to reach out and wrap Yuuri up in his arms; hide him away from the rest of the world and never let anything hurt this perfect, precious boy ever again.

“It’s . . . it’s still difficult at times . . . it causes problems. Like today . . . and you should have _seen_ the fight Phichit and I got into over his workshop . . .”

“His . . . workshop?” Viktor asked.

“Yea . . . it was years ago,” Yuuri explained, “One day, while he was still in the process of renovating the barn, he just _casually_ happened to mention that he would be adding a _forge_ to it . . . and I . . . I lost it. All I could picture was _another_ barn burning to the ground . . . but this time . . . with Phichit inside,”

“I . . . I’m sorry,” Viktor offered gently, “That . . . must have been upsetting,”

“Yea . . .” Yuuri agreed wistfully, “Phichit was younger than I was when Mari . . . when the barn burned down. I think, maybe he found a different way to handle it . . . instead of running, he threw himself into it head-first; learning all he could about combustion and explosives and things. I think that maybe, understanding the nature of the beast made him less afraid of it. And at the end of the day, I couldn't bear to keep him from doing what he loved, so we . . . _compromised_ about the workshop”

“Compromised?”

Yuuri smiled ever-so-slightly, “I . . . I made him put in every safety precaution known to man,” he laughed again, a bit louder this time, “He has to wear proper clothing whenever he uses the forge; goggles, heavy apron, leather gloves . . . all of it. He’s not supposed to keep anything flammable within ten feet. There have to be several barrels of rainwater standing by at all times. And the workshop floor is all packed earth . . . the outside perimeter is lined with shale and more packed earth for a good ways out . . . so just in case anything ever does happen . . .”

“The fire can't spread,” Viktor finished knowingly.

“Exactly,” Yuuri agreed. “It . . . it was a lot, maybe too much, but . . . Phichit understood how important it was to me . . . how important _he_ is to me. And even though I’m _certain_ that he’s always careful . . . even though I’m _certain_ that he knows what he’s doing . . . there have still been times where I’ve woken up in the middle of the night . . . and he hasn’t come in yet . . . so I’ve gotten out of bed to go check on him . . . just . . . just to be sure . . .”

“You’re a good brother, Yuuri” Viktor murmured with another little smile.

It was awe-inspiring sometimes, how devoted Yuuri was; Phichit was the whole reason he was even here, after all.  

“I try to be . . . when I can,” Yuuri answered melancholically, “I’m the older brother . . . it’s my job to look out for him . . . like Mari used to for both of us.”

Viktor nodded, “So . . . when you told me . . . that first night . . . when you said . . . he was your whole world . . .” understanding settled deep into Viktor's bones, shaking him to the core; the scope of his epiphany leaving him empty and breathless.  

“Yea . . .” Yuuri confessed, “He’s . . . my little brother. He’s all I have . . . Mari is gone . . . so are Okāsan and Otōsan . . . and Ojīsan . . . even Mæ̀ and Ph̀x. Phichit is my only family now . . . I . . . I really _don't_ know what I would do if anything happened to him,”

“It must be hard . . . being so far away from him,” Viktor noted sadly.

“It is,” Yuuri admitted, “I . . . I miss him a lot,”

“I’m sorry,” Viktor blurted.

Yuuri tilted his head quizzically, “For . . . what?”

For keeping you here.

For tearing you away from your only family.

For being so selfish.

“For . . . how far away the castle is,” Viktor said instead; taking the coward’s way out, as always.

Yuuri huffed a little laugh, “It’s alright,” he assured him, “You can't control where your castle is. And, besides . . . I . . . I like it here . . . a lot. Everyone is so kind and thoughtful. Sara introduced me to Michele and Emil today . . . and Nikolai made me these amazing katsudon pirozhkis . . . Yuri even brought them up to my room when I missed dinner. I . . . I hope this doesn't sound too strange, but, the castle . . . it . . . it almost feels like home . . . in a way . . .”

Viktor’s heart melted right then and there.

It was astounding really . . . how resilient Yuuri was. How adaptable. How resourceful. How fearless. How loving.

There was pain and sadness and tragedy and chaos in both his past _and_ his present . . . and yet he was still so soft and joyful and passionate and open and honest. He had never given up. Not like Viktor had; and Viktor hadn't even lost anyone.

 _Yet_.  

Where Viktor had been weak, Yuuri had always been strong. He had been brave enough to seek Viktor out, brave enough to tell him the truth, brave enough to talk about his own painful past . . . while a single bad dream had Viktor cowering in his chambers. 

“What . . . what is it?” Yuuri asked haltingly, seeing the melancholy little smile which had crept on to Viktor’s face.

He swallowed nervously, “It’s just . . . you. You’re an incredible person, Katsuki Yuuri,”

Yuuri’s nose crinkled and he turned away bashfully, “I . . . no . . . I’m not, really.”

“You _are_ ,” Viktor insisted breathlessly, “If it’s not too bold of me to say so . . . I think that Mari . . . I think that your whole family would be proud of the person that you are,”

Yuuri smiled then, warm and peaceful, “Thank you, Viktor . . . for understanding”

Viktor smiled back, the two settling into companionable silence as they watched the little fire slowly die down, dwindling to harmless ruby coals.

Someday, Viktor thought, maybe he could be just as brave as Yuuri.

 

*****

 

The breeze blew wonderfully through Isabella’s short dark hair; it was a _beautiful_ day, and she had never felt better in her _life_!

He was _gone_! Katsuki Yuuri was _really gone_! And best of all, he was _never coming back_!

She hadn’t even had to do anything! This whole terrible mess had just magically worked itself out! _She_ was happy, _Yuuri_ was happy, his _family_ was happy . . .

Well, happy _enough_.

The point being, that _everyone_ was happy!

Everyone _except_ . . .

Isabella scanned the horizon, spotting J.J.’s signature crimson jacket flapping in the wind just a little ways down the hill. 

The poor guy; he really was heartbroken.

And sure, Isabella felt for him; she _loved_ him, after all.

But even though J.J. was sad now, he would get over it in time, right? Besides, he was much better off without Yuuri anyway. This obsession with Katsuki was _killing_ him . . . making him do _terrible_ things. This wasn’t the J.J. she knew.

This wasn’t the J.J. she loved.

But now, everything could go back to normal and –

Isabella stopped in her tracks.

She thought . . . she thought she had heard something.

She waited, listening intently to the sounds on the breeze.

There it was again; the whinny of a horse, high-pitched and drawn out over the acres.

She turned around slowly, scanning the horizon.

There, in the paddock on the far side of the Workshop, a draft horse plodded along merrily near the gate.

Odd; she could have sworn that Yuuri’s family only owned _one_ horse.

If . . . their horse was here, then . . . then how had Yuuri gotten to The City?

“No. Stop it, Yang,” Isabella scolded herself, “Don’t ruin this for yourself now,”

She turned sharply back onto the path she was meant to be following.

Surely she was only imagining things. Maybe she was wrong . . . maybe Katsuki did have _two_ horses instead of one. Or . . . or perhaps the Tinker had gone with Yuuri to The City, and dropped him off and . . .

“No! Just . . . just _let it go_ . . .”

She raised her head proudly, searching once more for her ruby target.

“J.J.!” She cried cheerily, “J.J., wait up!”

The world fell away as she ran to catch up with the man she loved; so fast she felt like she was flying.

Everything was going to be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Russian] Da = да = Yes/Yea 
> 
> [Russian] Vkusno = вкусно = Delicious 
> 
> [Japanese] Okāsan = お母さん= Mom
> 
> [Japanese] Otōsan = お父さん= Dad 
> 
> [Japanese] Ojīsan = お祖父さん= Grandfather
> 
> [Thai] Mæ̀ = แม่ = Mom
> 
> [Thai] Ph̀x = พ่อ = Dad 
> 
> ***My head cannon for this is that all the kids called both sets of parents “mom” and “dad”, but to differentiate, they called the Chulanonts "Mæ̀" and "Ph̀x", and the Katsukis "Okāsan" and "Otōsan". The "Ojīsan" that Yuuri refers to in this chapter is the same one who gave him the atlas. That’s just my idea for this fic, anyway!
> 
> \- As always, feel free to message me with corrections!


	7. Hopes, Hunches & Hidden Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor takes a risk and Yuuri makes an assumption. Phichit has an epiphany. Isabella learns a secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, you guys . . . so sorry for the wait! Life is wild, amirite?
> 
> Anywho, Chapter 7 is FINALLY here - and THE FEELS TRIP CONTINUES! This time with ANGST *dun dun dun*. Well, mild angst - and lots of fluff! (Also it's hella long - like, the longest chapter yet. You might wanna grab some snacks and settle in, haha). Enjoy! 
> 
> Thank You SO MUCH for reading! Find me on Tumblr @silverscribblesuniverse
> 
>  
> 
> TECHNICAL NOTES:
> 
> As always, if you see anything weird in my translations, let me know and I'll fix it!
> 
> FIND TRANSLATIONS IN THE 'END NOTES'
> 
>  
> 
> ***CONTENT WARNINGS FOR CHAPTER 6
> 
> This Chapter contains MENTIONS OF FIRE. 
> 
> LANGUAGE AND/OR VIOLENCE - Please be aware that there may be the occasional curse word/violent scene in this work.
> 
> ***A NOTE ABOUT NON-CON/DUB-CON:
> 
> This work will contain no explicit sexual content, though it will contain romantic content, such as kissing and/or implied sexual interest, like characters talking about being in love, innuendos, etc.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SEXUAL INNUENDO.
> 
> Also, as previously noted - this work involves themes regarding unwanted romantic/sexual advances and the rejection of personal autonomy. These themes can be a sensitive subject for many, so please proceed with caution.

“Five minutes!” Lilia hollered, “Then back to it!”

Yuuri nodded to the metronome respectfully; panting and sweaty and disheveled and . . . perfect.

Viktor sighed, gazing fondly at the beautiful dancer. His tail wagged lazily, thudding softly against the massive marble stairs on which he sat.

He didn’t even bother to hide it anymore. 

Things had gone back to normal after Yuuri’s panic attack a fortnight prior; perhaps even better than normal, if he was being perfectly honest.

Though Viktor had stumbled a few times over the last couple weeks, in his enthusiasm to keep Yuuri in good spirits, it seemed that their maudlin conversation had actually ended up bringing them closer together.

It was strange, Viktor mused; this whole time he had been focusing solely on making Yuuri _happy_ ; terrified that if Yuuri was ever upset or bored, or angry or sad, then . . . then that would be it. The instant Yuuri became unhappy, he would leave; Viktor would lose him forever.

But, Yuuri had surprised him once again; his honesty, his openness, his bravery . . . all of it had only made Viktor fall that much further in love.

Viktor was used hiding his feelings; used to ignoring them and bottling them up and pushing them down; a royal habit he had picked up out of necessity. And yet . . . the two of them talking about Yuuri’s sorrows had somehow made everything . . . better.

At the very least, it was a relief to know that although Yuuri would inevitably face both heartache and grief, he was willing to do so by Viktor’s side.

Viktor smiled; how curious that such a tragic conversation could still lead back to this . . . to this perfect moment, watching Yuuri dance as he sat on the ballroom stairs.

Yuuri roughly toweled the sweat off his brow; catching Viktor’s eye as he took a deep pull of water.

Viktor quickly looked away, repentant for his gawking.

He casually straightened his lapel, trying not to appear too eager for Yuuri's attention; he had taken to wearing the billowing white shirt these days, due to the heroic demise of his beloved claret cape.

Soon, Yuuri was wandering over to him with a shy smile; the one that always made Viktor’s insides go all fluttery.

“Getting tired?” Viktor teased, as Yuuri closed the distance between them.

“Hardly,” the dancer quipped with an adorable roll of his eyes, “you just seemed bored . . . sitting over here all by your lonesome,”

Viktor’s wagging tail begged to differ; as did his wry smile.

“As if I could ever tire of watching you dance,” He replied sincerely.

Yuuri blushed, ever so-slightly, the tips of his ears turning a pale, rosy hue; Viktor’s tail wagged faster in response.

The corner of Yuuri’s lip curled upward in a sly grin, “Really? That’s such a shame . . .”

Viktor’s tail stopped wagging and his eyes went wide and plaintive.

“Wha . . . I . . .”

Yuuri furrowed his brow pensively, “Yes. An absolute shame . . . apparently I’m doomed to a lifetime of solos . . . as it seems I’ll never be able to persuade you to join me. You know, since you won’t ‘ever tire of _watching_ ’ . . .”

A confused moment hung in the air, before Yuuri broke down and snickered.

“Yuuri!” Viktor pouted, “ _Yuuri, you’re so mean to me_!”

And although his voice was pained, his tail was wagging once more; thumping in time with the rapid beating of his heart.

Yuuri broke down, laughing through his apologies.

After several minutes of dramatic fawning, Viktor’s ego was finally placated.

Yuuri smiled at the satisfied Beast, then looked down at his hands, suddenly shy, “You know . . . if you ever want to . . . I mean . . . we still can. _Dance_ , I mean . . .”

Viktor’s heart stopped.

“Oh . . . I . . . I’m certain I wouldn’t be able to keep up with you,” he lied, trying to re-direct the conversation.

Obviously, Viktor wanted to dance with Yuuri very much; more than anything in the world, in fact. Day after day he pined; longing to hold the beautiful boy in his arms and whisk him away to the tune of romance . . .

It was just . . . too much, too soon. Too intimate; too risky. Viktor knew that if he ever set so much as a single clawed toe on the dance floor with Yuuri, he would break down and confess his love right then and there.

He would probably even propose.

Which was also something he wanted to do, of course . . . but there were so many things he and Yuuri hadn’t yet spoken of; so many things Viktor still kept hidden. He couldn’t possibly confess his feelings while there were still secrets between them; it wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair.

Viktor looked away quickly to avoid the disappointment pooling in Yuuri’s big brown eyes.

He bowed his head further in shame; someday he would make it up to Yuuri.

Someday he would say ‘yes’; someday he would sweep Yuuri off his feet.

Someday he would stop being such a coward.

But today was not that day.

“I’ve thought this for a while, but your stamina is pretty impressive,” Viktor continued suddenly, trying to distract from his rejection, “I would attribute it to your professionalism, drive and passion . . . but it could also be a subconscious desire to make use of the new resources, considering your previous practice conditions. You’re also still relatively young and have sustained no major injuries –”

A sudden sensation made Viktor stop mid sentence; a soft touch to his ear, a gentle stroking of thumb and forefinger.

Viktor slowly lifted his gaze to meet Yuuri’s.

The dancer abruptly snatched his hand back, looking utterly mortified.

“I just couldn’t help it! Sorry!”

It took all of Viktor’s willpower not to smirk.

“Are they really . . . _that fuzzy_?” he murmured piteously instead; feigning offense.

Yuuri’s eyes went wide and contrite, “No, No, No, No!” he cried, “They’re _very_ sleek and shiny!”

Viktor fainted backwards on the stairs, one arm dramatically draping across his eyes, “You’ve wounded me, I don’t know if I will ever recover . . .”

“I’m sorry! I don’t know what I was thinking! Please, don’t be –” Yuuri yelped, rushing in after the wilting Viktor.

As he did so, his foot caught on the bottom stair, sending him sprawling out on top of the unsuspecting beast.

They crashed together with an “oomph” and a “thud”, Yuuri accidentally pinning Viktor beneath him.

Their eyes met briefly, before they both burst into laugher.

Slowly, they struggled to sit up, trying to disentangle themselves several times in vain; both laughing far too hard to maintain any semblance of balance.

At long last, they were both back upright; Yuuri pulling Viktor into a sitting position with a gentle tug on his paw.

Viktor never wanted to let go.

Yuuri was now blushing furiously, “I . . . Umm . . .”

Suddenly, Lilia’s voice shattered the moment; forcing Yuuri to return to practice.

Viktor reluctantly relinquished Yuuri’s hand; the dancer’s sliding slowly out of his own as Yuuri ruefully turned back to his instructor.

One last look over his shoulder, and he was gone.

Viktor bubbled with delight; perhaps “someday” would come sooner than he thought.

 

*****

 

On the landing at the top of the stairs, a nosy clique of castle staff huddled together, overlooking the ballroom between the gaps in the ornate banisters; gauging the romantic progress of their wayward Prince.

Chris and Masumi snuggled close to one another, with Mila and Sara crammed in beside them. Yakov stood a little ways off, pretending to be above such foolish behaviour, while Yuri and Otabek shared another vantage point further down the line; Yuri scowling as always.

Things between Viktor and Yuuri seemed to be going well; _very well indeed_.

Presently, the two were exchanging quips, situated so closely together and speaking so softly that, despite the sophisticated acoustics of the ballroom, their voices didn’t reach up to where the well-meaning spies could hear them.

They both looked very happy, lost together in their own little world.

Then, Yuuri was reaching for Viktor; gently caressing his . . . ear?

A small chuckle escaped Chris’s waxy lips, “Well, who'd have thought?” he purred quietly, so as not to be overheard.

Masumi sighed his assent, “Well, bless my soul!”

Viktor was now fainting dramatically as a part of some joke . . . and Yuuri had just fallen on top of him, in his haste to retort.

“Well, who'd have known?” Sara giggled.

“Well, who indeed!” Mila agreed jubilantly. 

“And who'd have guessed they'd come together on their _own_?” Chris jabbed.

The staff nodded, recalling the hopeless hours they had spent labouring in the name of love.

Suddenly, Yuuri cried out below; both he and Viktor had toppled over _once again_ as they tried to sit upright, their laughter echoing brightly through the ballroom.

Mila let out a little snicker of her own, watching her once stern and stoic Prince acting so adorably love-sick, “It's so peculiar!”

“We'll wait and see a few days more . . .” Chris grinned, “There may be something there that _wasn't_ there before . . .”

Now Lilia’s voice was booming though the ballroom, ordering Yuuri back to practice.

They watched as Yuuri slowly released Viktor, reluctant to obey. Even from the top of the staircase, they could see the dancer’s shy smile and soft blush.

Yakov hummed pensively, “. . . perhaps there _is_ something there that wasn't there before” he relented. 

“ _What_?” Yuri snorted derisively. 

With the dancer returning to the floor, there was not much more left to see, and slowly, the staff began to dissipate; all in very high spirits.

Yuri pouted, puzzled.

Otabek caught the surly teacup’s gaze and shrugged, “There may be something there that wasn't there before,” he repeated simply, before he too retreated from the rail, returning to his daily duties.

Yuri growled and followed Otabek out of the ballroom.

He still didn’t see what everyone was so worked up about; this was nothing new . . . Viktor and Katsudon had _always_ been like that.

 

*****

 

 _‘Tap, tap, tap’_.

Nothing . . .

 _‘Tap, tap, tap’_.

Still nothing . . .

Isabella frowned at the heavy spruce door in front of her; eyes tracing over the decorative wrought iron plate, which read “LEROY” in stately capital letters. The afternoon sun did not glint off of the tarnished metal, instead absorbed by the charcoal black ore.

 _‘Tap, tap, tap’_.

The door did not budge, no sounds echoed from inside the expansive abode.

Isabella shifted nervously, and tried the handle.

Locked.

A lump formed in her throat as she reached into the pocket of her hunting jacket; the one which matched J.J.’s stitch for stitch. She fumbled for a moment, then pulled a matching iron key from its crimson folds.

Of course J.J. had given her a key; they were best friends after all, nigh inseparable since birth.

She quickly popped the little skeleton key into the lock, jerking it to the left.

The door swung open and she ventured in.

“J.J.?” She called softly; the curtains were all drawn, and it was dark inside, despite the warm glow of the sunlit afternoon, “J.J.? Are you here?”

The two-story stonework house was the largest in the village; not a mansion or a villa by any stretch of the imagination, but it was strong and sturdy, a good family home, decorated like a cozy hunting lodge on the inside, all finished wood and checkered blankets.

Isabella passed by a large granite fireplace on her way to the stairs; smiling as she recalled the hours she and J.J. had spent together in that very spot, cross-legged on the floor with their schoolwork, basking in the glow of its flames.

The stairs creaked only slightly under her boot; sanded cedar displaying a veritable sea of knots and rings. So like J.J., she mused; smooth and polished . . . yet complex and unfathomable . . . strong and sturdy and natural and wild.

Whenever she thought of J.J., she thought of pine and campfire smoke, of autumn and leather and windy days . . . and home. 

She hadn’t seen him in weeks, and she was worried.

He was fine, he had said. He needed time to himself, he had said. He would be back to normal soon, he had said.

But a fortnight did not count as “soon” in Isabella’s opinion.

She came to the second story, more sturdy cedar planks stretching out into a long hallway; a narrow corridor of white papered walls hung with acrylic landscapes in hand-carved wooden frames; painted by J.J.’s mother, put on display by his father.

She turned to the left, knocking sharply on the first door that she came to.

 _‘Tap, tap, tap’_.

 “J.J.?” She called once again. He was in there, she knew, but it would do no good to barge in on him.

Silence.

“J.J. . . . I’m coming in,” She announced at last, giving the pine door a sharp shove.

It swung open to reveal J.J.’s own bedroom; the one in which they used to play ‘hunters’ when they were little, the one in which they had whispered childish schoolyard rumors, the one in which they used to have sleepovers . . . until they grew too old and everything had to change.

J.J. was sitting on the cushioned window seat, gazing despondently at the streets down below; his hunting knife and whetstone had been discarded at his feet.

He was dressed at least; but barely . . . just a shirt and hose and waistcoat.

His red hunting jacket lay rumpled and abandoned at the foot of his bed.

“What are you doing here?” He murmured, not turning to face her.

Isabella scoffed, “What do you _think_ I’m doing here, idiot?” she returned, with no real malice; picking her way carefully closer to J.J.

“I didn’t think you wanted to see me, is all,” J.J. explained morosely, still refusing to turn.

Isabella’s heart lurched; J.J. was doing worse than she imagined.

J.J. had always been so sure, so confident . . . so strong.

But now . . .

Isabella grimaced; she hated Katsuki Yuuri more than she had ever hated anyone in her life.

“You . . . said you wanted to be alone,” she mumbled petulantly, stamping down her errant rage.

“And yet . . . here you are,” J.J. reflected, not sarcastic or snippy, but wistful, and almost awed.

“You haven’t been seen in a fortnight . . . I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t fallen down a well,” Isabella goaded, hoping to pull J.J. from his funk. 

She was rewarded with a small huff of laughter; a melancholy smile.

“I . . . haven’t been myself lately, have I?”

“No,” Isabella murmured, with a small shake of her head

“And . . . I’ve been acting poorly,” J.J. apologized.

“I’d go with insufferable and bone-headed, but . . . yes,” Isabella agreed fondly, “and also . . . worrisome . . .”

J.J. frowned, looking down at his clasped hands, “Then . . . I suppose I shouldn’t tell you that I _still_ can’t stop thinking about him”

Silence drifted between them and Isabella’s stomach tightened; so close, yet so far.

“But . . . Yuuri is . . .”

“Gone . . . I know,” J.J. finished automatically, “It doesn’t . . . it still feels the same. I don’t know how to make it . . . not,”

J.J. wasn’t exactly a poet, but Isabella could read him like a book. He was still pining, still hoping, still wondering what could have been.

It tore her to shreds.

“We . . . we could always go to The City,” She offered reticently, “You know . . . try to find him there . . .”

Though she was loathed to indulge J.J.’s obsession, she had no idea what else might comfort her grim friend.

“No,” J.J. declared resolutely, “we don’t have to . . . he didn’t even say goodbye,”

“But only because he –”

“Didn’t want the pressure, I know,” J.J. interrupted again, “still doesn’t hurt any less when the man you love just . . . vanishes without a word.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, J.J.,” Isabella admitted, “I know it’s rough, but . . . that’s just how Yuuri is. That’s how he’s always been,”

“I know,” J.J. sighed, his head tipping backwards plaintively to rest on the wall, “It’s just not _fair_ ,”

Isabella’s forehead scrunched in confusion.

“It’s . . . things are supposed to be different,” J.J. explained, “My whole life, I’ve worked hard, followed the law, been a good person . . . I’ve done everything I was supposed to do . . . so, why doesn’t anything ever go _right_? I’ve spent my whole life working to be the best . . . The best son, the best hunter, the best man I can be, and what do I get in return? Nothing. All I want is to be with Yuuri . . . is that really too much to ask? Why does he have to be so  _difficult_? I mean, I _love_ him . . . I would do _anything_ for him . . . so _how could he just leave me like that_? It's not supposed to be this way . . . the hero is supposed to ride in and save the day and marry their one true love and live happily ever after . . . not get jilted without so much as a 'goodbye'. I just . . . don't understand _why_ ”.

“Well . . .” Isabella wavered, mulling over her thoughts, “Maybe . . . maybe _that’s_ why”

“That’s why _what_?” J.J. inquired, staring up at the ceiling.

“Maybe that’s why he kept turning you down . . .” Isabella bit her lip, the words burning like acid on her tongue, “because he planned on leaving, and he didn’t want to get your hopes up,”

J.J. was silent a moment, pondering the implications.

“So . . . you’re saying that . . .  _I’m_ not the problem? He . . . he _might_ actually love me, but he just can't be with me?”

“I didn’t say _that_!” Isabella back-pedaled quickly, “I mean, it’s _possible_ . . . _everyone_ loves you . . . I’m just saying that maybe _none of this_ has _anything_ to do with you. Maybe Yuuri didn’t mean to upset you, maybe he’s just . . . _aloof_ and _self-centered_ and _indifferent_? Artistic types are usually like that, right?”

J.J. frowned again, “I can live with indifference, I suppose,” he relented sadly.

“No, you _can’t_ ” Isabella asserted, shocking J.J so suddenly that his eyes rapidly swivelled to meet hers.

“You are Jean-Jacques Leroy,” she declared, “and Jean-Jacques Leroy does not _settle_ ,” her lip trembled only slightly, “You deserve something _better_ , something _more_ . . .”

“Yuuri is –”

“ _Not_ your one true love. Yuuri is odd. He’s _odd_ , J.J.,” Isabella insisted, “And sure, maybe he has _some_ good qualities . . . but do you really want to spend the rest of your life pining after some . . . pretentious, preening, _playboy_?”

J.J. opened his mouth to retort, but no words came.

“I get it. I do,” Isabella snapped, “but J.J. . . . _true love_ or _not_ . . . _playboys_ don’t make good _husbands_!”

J.J. looked back down to his hands once more, shame-faced.

“But he’s . . . _special_ ,” the hunter whispered plaintively.

“Fine. He’s _special_ ,” Isabella relented, “he’s mysterious and interesting and beautiful. He’s your one true love . . . and you want to be a hero. Fine. I get it,” she seethed, suppressing her fury as she tried to make J.J. see reason, “But . . . have you ever considered that Yuuri might not _need_ rescuing?”

J.J. sighed, swivelling towards Isabella and planting his feet firmly on the ground, “then . . . what am I supposed to do now?”

Isabella hummed pensively, her eyes wandering around the cozy wood-scented room.

She smirked.

“Take a page out of Yuuri’s book,” She replied coyly, “and get out of The Village”

J.J. raised an eyebrow.

“Yea . . .” Isabella continued jubilantly, “Let’s get out of town, J.J.! We can go on a big, week-long hunting expedition, just like we used to back in the old days! You loved those!” she smiled wide.

“I don’t know . . .” J.J. sighed wistfully.

“Picture it!” Isabella cajoled, sitting next to him on the window seat with a friendly shove, “A week out in the wilderness, just you and me, no people, no responsibilities . . . _no Yuuri_ . . . we could just . . . get away from everything for a while. You could . . . clear your head. Figure out what you really want . . .” she looked at the man she loved with hopeful eyes, “so . . . what do you say?”

J.J. looked to the floor, “Sorry . . . I . . . I don’t think I’m up for it,” he declined apologetically, “I think I just want to . . . stay here for a while,”

Isabella tried to ignore the shattering of her heart, “You . . . need some more time?” she offered supportively.

“I think so . . . yea,” J.J. confirmed.

They sat in silence a moment longer, until Isabella finally took her cue to leave.

She drifted wordlessly to the door, pausing before she closed it behind her.

“If there’s anything I can do . . . you’ll let me know?” she asked, a shade of desperation colouring her tone.

J.J. just nodded and went back to reclining on the window seat, staring out at the endless thatched roofs and cobblestones.

Isabella shut the door with a soft ‘click’; every step though the house more miserable than the last.

She crossed the threshold of the front door, stepping back into the real world. She locked the door behind her, and shuffled aimlessly along the alleyways.

There had to be _something_ she could do . . . something that would lift J.J.’s spirits, something that would make everything alright again . . .

The busy Marketplace hummed noisily around her.

“One Side! Coming through!”

“Bread! Get your bread here!”

“Fish! Fresh fish! Two for a pound!”

The words rolled off her like raindrops.

A sudden noise made her stop; the whinny of a horse.

She watched distractedly, as a stout man tried to tug an ancient nag through the throng. The horse stood firm and brayed again.

A thought began to creep into Isabella’s mind; a thought she had not entertained for weeks.

But, maybe . . . just . . . maybe . . .

The Tinker _technically_ owed her one . . . after all, he was still in one piece, thanks to her.

Maybe _he_ could do something . . .

Perhaps . . . tomorrow morning, she would pay him a little visit.  

 

*****

 

Yuuri had awoken in high-spirits; there was a certain lightness to him, a bounce in his step this morning as he ambled leisurely towards the ballroom. His footfalls sounded softly in the gilded corridor as he casually strolled past the endless array of extravagant decorations.

Once intimidating in their opulence, the golden framed portraits and bejewelled sculptures were now as familiar to him as any tool or trinket in Phichit’s Workshop; the ominous Castle becoming as comfortable to him as his own cozy little cottage.

A calm, sugary feeling filled his chest, in anticipation of his destination.

Another dance practice; another day spent with Viktor.

Morning practice, then afternoon tea, walks in the garden, a shared dinner and an evening curled up in Viktor’s parlor, exchanging stories and innocent quips until the evening grew late and the logs in the fireplace all burned down to coals; it had become their new norm, both slipping into the routine with ease and enthusiasm.

Despite Lilia’s sharp and demanding methods, Yuuri adored her tutelage; but what he _really_ loved about practice, what he _really_ looked forward to was –

Yuuri’s cheeks grew hot and tinged with red, blushing as though anyone might suddenly be able to read his thoughts.

But he was alone in the corridor . . .  so . . . perhaps it would be alright to let his mind wander . . . just this once . . .

Besides . . . the way that Viktor made him feel . . . the way that _he_ was beginning to feel about _Viktor_ . . . now _that_ was a subject which demanded immediate rumination.

Yuuri slowed his pace, giving himself some extra time to mull before he reached the grand ballroom entrance.

It was true that Yuuri had never been one for attention. He loved his art, he loved _dance_ . . . he understood that it was meant to be a performance; meant to be watched and participated in and shared. But he had never been able to do so before. All his life, he had hidden his talents, practicing in relative secrecy, never once performing, never dancing at festivals or even joining in simple daisy chains . . .

Because nobody had ever really understood before.

Because everyone thought he was odd.

And they were right; he _was_ odd.

Yuuri was kind and decent . . . but he was also quiet and shy and awkward and anxious. He was the type of person that nobody ever looked at twice.

He was invisible . . . and he liked it that way.

At least . . . that’s what Yuuri had always thought.

That’s what he had always said.

That’s what he had always believed about himself.

And yet . . .

Somehow, it was different with Viktor.

With Viktor, he _wasn’t_ odd.

With Viktor, he _wasn’t_ quiet and shy and awkward and anxious. Or maybe he still was . . .  but it just didn’t matter anymore.

With Viktor, he didn’t _want_ to be invisible.

The way Viktor made him feel . . .

The way Viktor made him feel as he danced, knowing he was watching his every move . . . it was indescribable.

It didn’t feel judgemental or threatening or invasive. It didn’t feel like he was being hunted. It didn’t feel like he was being consumed.

It felt . . . incredible; it felt supportive and safe and sincere.

It felt faithful.

It felt . . . empowering.

Yuuri had never felt anything like it before.

And so, as days had turned to weeks and weeks had turned to months, Yuuri found himself thinking about Viktor more and more; wanting to be near him, wanting to talk to him and spend time with him and dance with him and . . . touch him.

It had been that very line of thinking which had led to his mortifying faux pas the previous day. Even now the embarrassment lingered, but . . . Viktor’s ears were just so cute and fuzzy . . . Yuuri couldn’t help himself!

And although he could hardly believe it . . . there was no other explanation for his strange new boldness and possessive new feelings.

He was . . . _falling_ for Viktor.

When Yuuri had first started having these ‘ _feelings_ ’ he had tried to ignore them; tried to convince himself that it was merely the kinship of a fellow artist which had touched him so deeply; tried to write them off as friendship or gratitude or admiration . . . but those excuses were becoming harder and harder to justify. And now, pacing here in the corridor, with blushing cheeks and bouncing steps and racing heart, he found that he could no longer deny it.

And strangely, he didn’t want to.

Yuuri couldn’t pinpoint exactly _when_ his infatuation had taken root; had it been when Viktor had comforted him after his panic attack . . . or maybe when Viktor had gifted him the ballroom? Or their first stroll through the gardens together?

Or perhaps even the very first moment they had spoken; when gentle words and thoughtful eyes belied a beastly countenance.

Viktor’s humor and conversation, his generosity and patience . . . his gentle touch and heart-shaped smile and all-encompassing gaze had bewitched Yuuri, drawing him deeper and deeper into the depths of affection, without ever realizing he was so far in over his head.

Surely . . . surely it wouldn’t be so bad, would it; to let himself have these . . . ‘feelings’?

Viktor was _human_ after all, beneath the guise of the spell; and a good man, at that.

More importantly . . . he and Viktor . . . they _cared_ about one another, didn’t they?

Yuuri frowned; it was possible that he was merely over-thinking things again; letting his imagination run wild and jumping to conclusions . . .

But he just couldn’t help but feel like . . . like, maybe there was _something there_ . . .

Would it really be _so_ terribly foolish to hope?

A crystal chandelier caught the light, casting rainbows around his feet on the brightly polished marble.

Yuuri sighed; He knew that wishing would not get him very far at all. Eventually, he would have to _say_ something.

But . . . he didn’t even know where to begin. He had never felt this way about anyone before. It was all so new and confusing and uncertain; there was no way to know where Viktor’s heart lay; or if he even desired a romantic entanglement at all!

Besides, Viktor had a spell to break; _that_ was where his focus needed to be.

That was where _both_ of their attentions needed to be.

Surely, Viktor didn’t have time for his silly little crush.

So, with a heavy heart, Yuuri resolved to wait, out of respect for his dearest companion.

He could be patient, be a _good friend_ and keep his feelings in check while he tried to help Viktor break the spell.

But . . . maybe _after_ . . .

 _After_ the spell was broken . . . once everyone was safe and Viktor was human again . . . maybe _then_ Yuuri could say something. Maybe _then_ he could start hoping.

Yuuri slowed to a stop, gazing back at his own face as he caught his reflection in a gleaming, full-length mirror.

Or maybe . . .

Once the spell was broken . . . maybe Viktor would want to . . . return to the life he once had. Return to the pageantry and prestige of the ruling class. Take up his banners again and . . . _rekindle old acquaintances_?

Viktor was clearly well-to-do; one didn’t live in a castle of this magnitude without wealth and stature behind them. But had Viktor been a Duc? A Marquis? A Comte? What of his family? His duties? What if someone contested Viktor’s claim once the spell was broken? What if Viktor was forced into an arranged marriage? What if Viktor was suddenly too good for him?

What if Viktor couldn’t spend time with him anymore?

What if Viktor didn’t care about him anymore?

What if Viktor didn’t want him here anymore?

Yuuri turned away from the mirror sharply; resuming his journey to the ballroom.

One way or another . . . he and Viktor would have to go their separate ways. That’s what would _really_ happen once the spell was broken, right?

A simple farm boy like him didn’t _really_ belong in a castle after all . . . especially not on the arm of a Nobleman . . .

Especially when he didn’t even have the courage to tell Viktor how he felt . . .

His maudlin musings carried him straight into the ballroom.

“Yuuri!”

Yuuri snapped to attention as Viktor jumped up with a wide smile, excitedly beckoning him over, tail wagging like a puppy.

And just like that, Yuuri brightened; feeling lighter than ever and only a tiny bit hollow.

He greeted Viktor with a smile, as his companion launched into an enthusiastic pitch for the day’s practice; apparently he and Lilia had been _talking_.

Yuuri barely registered a word but immediately agreed, just for a chance to see Viktor’s endearing heart-shaped smile.

Truth be told, Yuuri was terribly distracted, imagining how stunning those azure eyes might look, beaming back at him from a human face.

Lilia barked and Yuuri fell in line; feeling the comforting weight of Viktor’s eyes on him as he did.

Yuuri smiled and began to stretch; a bittersweet tilt of his lips.

He didn’t know how long he would be allowed to stay with Viktor . . . or how long the spell would last . . . but as long as he was here, he would make the most of the time they had together.

 

*****

 

The morning was hot; infuriatingly humid and sticky.

Though Phichit had tried to increase the airflow by opening all the rooftop slats in his workshop, it did nothing to ease the unrelenting temperature.

After all, he couldn’t create a breeze if the wind wasn’t even blowing to begin with.

He lay on his back on top of the center workbench, alternately gazing up at the sky, then covering his eyes; simultaneously amusing himself and making himself sick with sunspots.

At the South Workbench, Minako paced.

They had reached a dead end.

They now had a name, “Nikiforov Manor”; but that was where their luck had ended.

Every book, every historical record, every drunken tale told in The Tavern; they had scoured them all, but nothing and no one had shed any more light on the mysterious and magical goings-on. They had found, to their incredible dismay, that every book and tome and file in the entire village had somehow been “conveniently” published within in the last 20 years.

If only Lord Maire Marchand kept as close an eye on their genealogies as he did their tax records.

Phichit growled; they were well and truly doomed.

Or Yuuri was.

Or The Beast was.

Or they all were.

He grimaced at himself; ever since he had started on this particular puzzle, he had become very cynical indeed.

He really hadn’t expected it to be this _hard_.

“What about the Chaplain? He might have histories . . . or other texts? Religious doctrines or mythologies, maybe?” Minako’s voice suddenly pinged through the cavernous workshop.

“He already gave us _everything_ ,” Phichit sighed, irritation creeping into his voice, “he said he ‘donated’ all his ‘old, worn out’ books _years_ ago, remember?”

Minako’s voice was terse, “Alright . . . Town Hall? We’re certain that we –”

“Yes,” Phichit wailed in exasperation, “We looked through it all . . . and the schoolhouse and the library and the healer’s place and The Tavern. Nothing. Nanda. Zip. Zilch. Bupkis.”

“What about . . . other people?” Minako suggested, “Maybe someone has a personal collection –”

“Pfft,” Phichit scoffed, “You’re joking, right? You know you and I are the only people in town who _read_ ,”

Well . . . Minako and himself . . . and Yuuri.

Although he supposed that Yuuri wasn’t technically ‘in town’ anymore.

“Well then, let’s hear _your_ idea, genius!” Minako snapped.

The heat was getting to them both.

Phichit melted further into the wooden surface of the workbench; his head lolling pathetically towards Minako.

“M’not” He pouted.

“Not _what_?” Minako sighed in exasperation.

“. . . a genius,” Phichit moaned pitifully, pressing the heel of his palm to one irritated eye.

“Oh no . . . Phichit, _don’t you dare_ –”

“What do you want from me?” Phichit wailed, shooting upright, his injured leg aching as he did so, “I screwed up, alright? Yuuri is gone and it’s all my fault!!”

“Phichit, this is _not_ helping” Minako insisted through gritted teeth.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize I was supposed to be _helping_ ” Phichit drawled sarcastically, “I’ve been goofing off this whole time, you know, having a right good laugh about it!”

“Phichit Chulanont, I swear if you don’t stop this _instant_ –”

“You’ll what? Tell Yuuri on me? Oh right, you _can’t_ because he’s not _here_. He’s gone, trapped forever in an _Enchanted Castle_ because he indebted himself to a _Beast_ in exchange for my life!”

“Phichit!” Minako snapped, “Lower your voice!”

Phichit glared at the tutor petulantly, secretly ashamed of his outburst.

“Phichit . . .” Minako soothed, taking a step towards him, her voice soft and low and cautious, “It’s not your fault. Yuuri made a choice. He isn’t in any danger . . . you said yourself that The Beast was kind. I’m sure he’ll take good care of Yuuri. We still have time to break the spell. So . . . do you think that _maybe_ you’re being a _bit_ dramatic?”

“ _Of course I’m being dramatic_!” Phichit cried, “Considering the situation, I think dramatics are entirely called for!”

“Well, what do you _want_  then?” Minako barked “Dramatics aren’t going to bring Yuuri back!”

Guilt and frustration and helplessness churned inside Phichit’s gut; he was shaking himself apart. He wondered if this was how Yuuri felt, when he had his panic attacks.

He fisted his hands painfully in his hair, “I don’t . . . I don’t know!” he wailed.

Phichit’s stomach lurched as he realized how true the sentiment was; consumed by an all-encompassing hopelessness he had never experienced before in his life.

Minako rubbed at her temples as Phichit bounced his good leg distractedly. 

“I want . . . I want to see Yuuri!” He decided at last, “We can’t break the spell on our own . . . we just . . . we have to go back and get him . . . we have to go back to the castle and –”

“NO!” Minako yelped, grabbing Phichit by the shoulders; whether to shake or still him, Phichit wasn’t certain.

“Why _not_?” he demanded.

“Because!” Minako objected, “it’s too . . . dangerous . . .”

She let go of her grasp on Phichit, instead winding her arms around her own waist; the world falling into stillness.

“Don’t _patronize_ me” Phichit muttered with a glare.

What was _wrong_ with him? This was so unlike himself . . . he _hated_ it, but he couldn’t . . . he didn’t know how to stop.

“The last time you went into those woods, you were _mauled_ by _wolves_! Your leg isn’t even properly healed yet!” Minako snapped, her voice rising, just as she had chastised Phichit for earlier.

“Not _wolves_ . . . _wolf_! Singular! Just one! And my leg is fine!”

Minako glared right back, before sharply prodding Phichit’s bite mark with a pointed finger.

“AAAAAAAugh!” Phichit screeched at the contact, “What the hell is _wrong_ with –”

“ _I can’t lose you too_!” Minako wailed, all composure gone.

Little crystal tears began to sparkle in her eyes.

Phichit deflated, “I . . . what?”

Minako sniffled, “I . . . I can’t lose you too” she repeated thickly, as a single teardrop rolled down her cheek.

Phichit had never seen Minako cry; he had never seen her project anything less than one hundred percent control in any given situation.

“I . . .” Phichit faltered, “I’m . . . sorry . . .”

Then he was crying too, fists pressed to his eyes, trying to make it stop.

He had to be strong.

He had to be strong for Yuuri.

He had to be strong and clever and resilient and quick and perfect and –

Lithe arms circled his chest, pinning his own arms in place; Minako tucked her head into the crook of his neck and wept.

Phichit manoeuvred his arms out of her vice to return the embrace.

They stayed like that for a long while, until the tears ran dry and the summer heat forced them to part.

“Maybe . . . maybe we should take a break?” Minako suggested reticently, “Just . . . take a few days . . . spend some time apart to –”

“Yea,” Phichit agreed instantaneously, “Yea. Good idea”

He didn’t want to be alone; not really . . . but he and Minako were both exhausted and frustrated and ready to kill one another. A break would do them some good; maybe it would even give him a new perspective, relieve some of the stress . . .

Minako gave Phichit one more quick squeeze, “I’m not giving up” she promised, voice cracking in a very un-Minako-like fashion.

“Me either” Phichit pledged, releasing her.

She took a step back, putting herself to rights before going back out in public.

“Just a couple of days . . . then we’ll come back to it fresh. If I think of anything . . .” She offered hesitantly.

“You know where to find me,” Phichit finished with a melancholy smile.

Minako nodded with a sad grin of her own.

Slowly, she turned and departed the workshop, leaving Phichit in stuffy, sweltering silence.

 

*****

 

“Five minutes! Then back to it!”

Lilia’s familiar break-time dismissal echoed through the ballroom.

Yuuri nodded to the metronome respectfully, before turning away to dry off and cool down; Viktor didn’t care about his state of dishevelment, of course, but Yuuri still wanted to be at least _somewhat_ presentable for his companion.

Once he was satisfied that his flushed, sweaty face wasn’t overtly offensive, Yuuri allowed himself to casually wander over to where Viktor sat.

As always, Viktor’s eyes were on him; his muzzle rested atop one giant paw, propped up on his knee, and the tip of his tail flicked back and forth contentedly across the stair, altogether making him look adorably dreamy and serene.

Yuuri scolded himself; now was _not_ the time for such thoughts.

“So . . .” Viktor wheedled, sitting up straight with a self-satisfied smirk, “You look like you’re _enjoying_ yourself . . .”

It took Yuuri one panicked moment to realize that Viktor was referring to dance practice; and not his current . . . _view_.

“Ah . . . yea!” Yuuri replied quickly, “Yes. I am. A lot,”

Viktor grinned victoriously.

“Thank you,” Yuuri murmured, “This was a really fun idea . . .”

This morning’s practice had been very different from the others; owing to Viktor’s brilliant stroke of inspiration. Rather than focusing on ballet, today Lilia was taking him through the various aspects of a Royal Ball, including attire, hierarchy and etiquette, along with a review of _all_ the most important dances; their steps, significance and the proper order in which they should occur.

Yuuri was positively glowing, and it seemed that Viktor had very much noticed.

“I thought you might like it,” Viktor agreed humbly, “I know it’s not as good as the real thing, but . . .”

“It’s wonderful,” Yuuri finished.

Viktor beamed back at him, his muzzle pulling into that infamous heart-shaped smile once more.

“Although,” Yuuri hummed pensively, “it is a little odd . . . attempting the couple’s dances with no partner to practice with . . .”

He hoped it was a subtle enough hint.

“Even so, your footwork is stupendous,” Viktor replied obliviously, “Though _I understand the trouble with the_ contredanses . . . I’m afraid you’ll just have to use your imagination with those, as we don’t have seven additional dancers . . . or even _five_. But the branle is coming along nicely, and from here at least, it doesn’t seem like you’re having any trouble with the _danses à deux . . .”_

As Viktor trailed off pensively, Yuuri plucked up his courage, “Well, you know . . . the danses à deux _are_ choreographed for _pairs_ . . .”

“Yes,” Viktor agreed blithely, “hence the name, I would assume,”

He smiled tightly up at Yuuri; the heart-shape was gone.

Oh.

Viktor wasn’t being _oblivious_ ; Viktor was rejecting his offers as delicately as they were being made.

Yuuri felt a lump form in his throat; right . . . how foolish of him.

He tried valiantly to hide his disappointment; quickly scrunching up his face in a forced smile.

“Ha, ha, of course,” Yuuri lied, “I just meant that . . . that’s why the steps for the danses à deux are easier to master . . . because there’s only one other person to imagine . . _.”_

Viktor quickly looked away, pretending to be distracted by something out the window. Yuuri’s gaze fell to his own hands, as he fiddled with his sleeves.

“And besides . . .” Yuuri rambled, desperately trying to dispel the tension, “. . . I already knew most of the danses à deux . . . I mean, the basics anyway. Minako taught me”.

Viktor was silent a moment, brows furrowed in confusion.

“. . . who?”

“Minako,” Yuuri replied buoyantly, relieved to have Viktor’s attention once more, “My . . . my tutor, back in The Village. The one that used to be a courtesan”.

Viktor blinked slowly, “I . . . sorry, Yuuri . . . I . . . must have misheard you. You said their name was . . . Minako?”

Yuuri suddenly felt nervous again, “Yea . . . Minako. Okukawa Minako,” he confirmed.

Viktor paused a moment more, committing the name to memory before speaking, “Well . . . they must be immensely talented,” he returned with a smile, “to impart such skill to you,” he turned his arctic gaze on Yuuri; it was once again filled with affection, but a strange hint of _‘something else’_ lingered behind his eyes.

Yuuri smiled back hopefully, “She is, yes,” he agreed, “Not everyone has the patience to teach a ten-year-old ballroom dance,”

“Oh, I don’t know . . . I’m certain _you_ were an attentive student, at least” Viktor teased.

Yuuri snorted, “As attentive as any schoolboy can be, I suppose,” he retorted, “but, I was the one who _begged_ her to teach me . . . so she never let me off easy. We focused mainly on ballet . . . but some days we would do ballroom instead . . . kind of like this, actually. We spent most of our time perfecting the danses à deux, since there was only the two of us. She taught me so many . . _._ Minuets, Passepieds, Sarabandes, Bourrées, Gavottes, Allemandes, Rigaudons, Courantes . . . I honestly can’t even remember them all,” Yuuri huffed a tense little laugh.

Viktor continued to uphold his smiling facade, “which was your first?” he asked softly.

“A branle,” Yuuri answered, “It was such a simple one too . . . but, Minako refused to teach me anything else until I mastered it. Any time I badgered her for something new, she would just smile and say, ‘every ball opens with a branle’ . . . and we’d keep at it,”

Yuuri’s heart ached, recalling the memory; he missed Minako more than he had realized. He quickly collected his thoughts and continued, “Back then . . . I thought she was just testing my dedication, you know? Trying to see if I would waste her time or not . . . but . . . it’s true, isn’t it?”

Viktor nodded distractedly, “every ball opens with a branle,” he confirmed.

Yuuri grinned, “I suppose she really _did_ know what she was talking about then,” he joked.

Viktor merely nodded once more, now a strange shade of melancholy.

“I was so proud the first time I got all the steps right,” Yuuri mused aloud, trying to pull Viktor from his daze, “Minako used to tell me that first impressions were a gentleman’s most important tool, both in life _and_ in dance . . . which was why she _insisted_ that I perfect the branle before learning anything new. After that, she let me move on to ballet and the danses à deux . . . and, well . . . here I am," he finished awkwardly.

“Yes . . . here you are,” Viktor repeated wistfully.

Yuuri’s eyebrows knit together, contorting with concern, “Viktor? Is everything – ?”

“Break over! Back to it! Quickly, now!”

Lilia’s voice rang out sharply, ruining the moment.

“Best not keep her waiting,” Viktor offered with that same faltering smile.

Yuuri’s chest tightened; what had he said wrong _now_?

He ruefully turned and made his way back over to the metronome.

The rest of the morning somehow felt _off_ , as if the entire world had shifted one inch to the left. Yuuri kept up with Lilia’s instructions alright, and he successfully executed most of his choreography, but something was . . . _missing_.

Perhaps he was just homesick from thinking about Minako . . . or perhaps it was that Viktor was no longer watching him, instead lost in his own private thoughts.

Yuuri frowned; he really had to stop pushing Viktor to dance . . . since all it seemed to do was push him away.

 

*****

 

The morning was hot; infuriatingly humid and sticky.

Isabella trudged up the dusty hill; her sights set on the Tinker’s Workshop.

She didn’t know what she wanted _exactly_ . . . but doing _something_ was better than doing _nothing_.

Maybe The Tinker had Yuuri’s address, so J.J. could write to him . . . or maybe he could tell J.J. how Yuuri was doing, or if he might be coming back . . . anything to give J.J. some closure and peace of mind.

She approached the wide barn door, hand poised to knock, when she heard a shout echo inside.

“ _Don’t you dare_ –”

Was that . . . the _tutor_?

Impossible; that hoity-toity so-and-so never raised her voice. What was going on? Who was she scolding? The Tinker? And why?

Isabella pressed her ear to the door nervously; something wasn’t right here.

She held her breath to listen.

“What do you want from me?”

The Tinker.

“I screwed up, alright? Yuuri is gone and it’s all my fault!!”

Isabella’s eyebrows furrowed . . . what was _that_ supposed to mean?

“Phichit, this is _not_ helping”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize I was supposed to be _helping_. I’ve been goofing off this whole time, you know, having a right good laugh about it!”

“Phichit Chulanont, I swear if you don’t stop this _instant_ –”

“You’ll what? Tell Yuuri on me? Oh right, you _can’t_ because he’s not _here_. He’s gone, trapped forever in an _Enchanted Castle_ because he indebted himself to a _Beast_ in exchange for my life!”

Isabella’s blood ran cold.

What? No. This was . . . absurd . . . impossible . . .

What were they even _saying_?

A Beast? Enchanted Castle? Were those some sort of . . . dancing terms? Were the two inside just that far gone, to believe such nonsense? Or . . . were they really in danger?

“Phichit!” The tutor snapped “Lower your voice!”

Isabella swallowed hard, muscles tense and frozen; had she been detected?

Shuffling steps, soft hisses.

After a moment there were no more sounds of movement; perhaps she hadn’t been found out after all.

She should . . . go . . .  she should leave . . . this conversation clearly was not meant for her ears . . .

But . . . whatever was going on . . . if _The Tinker_ was in danger . . . if _Yuuri_ was in danger . . .

Then perhaps, she and J.J. and the rest of The Village might be in danger as well.

What the _hell_ had they gotten themselves into?

Isabella pressed her ear more closely to the door; the tutor was still speaking, but so softly that Isabella couldn’t make out the words.

“ _Of course I’m being dramatic_!” The Tinker cried suddenly, making Isabella jump, “Considering the situation, I think dramatics are entirely called for!”

“Well, what do you _want_  then? Dramatics aren’t going to bring Yuuri back!”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know! I want . . . I want to see Yuuri! We can’t break the spell on our own . . . we just . . . we have to go back and get him . . . we have to go back to the castle and –”

Isabella’s stomach plummeted.

A Spell? An honest to mercy  _magic spell_?

 _Damn it_! She should have _known_ there was something wrong with those two.

And Katsuki as well.

“NO!”

“Why _not_?”

“Because! it’s too . . . dangerous . . .”

“Don’t _patronize_ me”

“The last time you went into those woods, you were _mauled_ by _wolves_! Your leg isn’t even properly healed yet!”

“Not _wolves_ . . . _wolf_! Singular! Just one! And my leg is fine!”

A pause.

“AAAAAAAugh!”

Isabella shoved herself off the door as the scream rippled through her body.

She couldn’t listen for another second.

She backed away slowly, before turning tail and racing back down the hill; kicking up dust as she went.

Her pace finally slowed once she had reached the market again; she looked around nervously, forcing herself to breathe.

Her feet carried her to The Tavern, where she immediately ordered a pint; hiding herself away at a small, shadowy table in the corner.

She took a deep pull of the fizzy lager; tasteless and flat on her tongue.

Okay . . . okay . . . so . . . what did she _know_?

Yuuri was not in The City as The Tinker and tutor had claimed; he was _actually_ being _held captive_ in an _Enchanted Castle_ . . . by some sort of _monster_?

No; _Beast_. That’s what they had said; _Beast_.

And there was a . . . spell? And they were trying to break it . . . because . . . because of some sort of debt? To get Yuuri back?

Because The Tinker had almost died? Mauled by wolves?

No . . . not _wolves_ . . . _wolf_.

Was that what _really_ happened to his leg?

And that _scream_ . . . what in mercy’s name were those two _doing_ in there?

Isabella ruffled her dark hair in frustration; trying the shake the thoughts from her head.

Maybe she had heard wrong . . . or maybe they had been talking in code . . . or maybe it was . . . some sort of trick? Or joke? To get back at her and J.J. for . . . certain _things_?

Maybe J.J. could –

Oh no.

She couldn’t tell J.J.

Imagine what this would do to him!

But . . . she had to, didn’t she?

Much as it pained her . . . she couldn’t keep something like this from him; it was far too important!

Especially since Yuuri was involved.

Besides . . . if this was actually _real_ . . . if there was some sort of . . . evil Beast lurking nearby . . . an evil Beast who stole people away and held them captive . . . an evil Beast that could cast spells and use magic . . . then . . . then the whole village was in danger!

And what about the wolf? Had the Beast sent that too?

Whatever was going on, The Tinker and the tutor were clearly incapable of handling it.

How long had Yuuri been gone? Months now? That was how long they had they been keeping this secret . . .

Why hadn’t they just gone to Captain Nishigori? Or hired a militia? Or just told J.J.? J.J. was the best hunter for _miles_ . . . and he was _in love_ with Yuuri . . . J.J. would have killed the Beast and brought Yuuri home by now, if only he had known . . . 

Isabella froze; was Yuuri even still alive?

No . . . he _had_ to be . . . The Tinker wanted to go back to the Castle and get him . . .

So then . . . they _knew_ where the castle was.

They knew where Yuuri was.

They knew where the Beast was.

Isabella drained the rest of her tankard, slamming it down on the table with a harsh, hollow _‘clang’_.

So . . . it was decided, then.

For the sake of The Village, she had to expose this conspiracy . . . and bring Katsuki Yuuri home once and for all.

 

*****

 

Viktor’s mane whipped around wildly as he bolted up the grand staircase.

“Wait! Vitya –”

“What’s wrong? Where are we going?”

Behind him, Yakov and Chris struggled to keep pace with their fleeing Prince.

Viktor had excused himself from the ballroom the instant practice was over; racing to find his most trusted staff. He had made up some excuse for Yuuri’s benefit, trying to be nonchalant about his sudden departure; though the anxious crack in the dancer’s voice when he had said, “ _go ahead, Viktor, I understand_ ,” still haunted his every step.

But . . . if what Yuuri had said was true . . . it could change _everything_.

Viktor _had_ to know.

He had to know _now_.

Viktor stopped suddenly, sliding a bit on the marble as he turned to scoop Yakov and Chris into his massive paws. Both yelped in protest, but Viktor did not heed their grumblings; there was no time to explain.

He charged down the corridor, quickly reaching his chamber doors and crashing through them so violently he was certain he heard the wood splinter. He deposited the squirming staff members onto his bed as gently as he could.

“Vitya! What on _earth_ has gotten into you?” Yakov scolded, bouncing roughly on the mattress beside the candelabra.

But Viktor did not answer, instead yanking at the topmost drawer of his bedside table, almost ripping it right off its track.

He tore through the contents, flinging handkerchiefs and trinkets carelessly across the room in his urgency. Chris and Yakov slowly made their way towards the edge of the bed, resigned that they could do nothing more than watch their frantic Master.

At long last, Viktor found what he sought.

He lifted the artifact out with a shaking paw; a small yet heavy silver hand mirror with a delicate handle and oblong face. On the back, shimmering crystals decorated the fine metal, twinkling in the shape of a rose. 

Viktor turned it over in his paws, gazing apprehensively into the glass surface; still kneeling on the floor by his side-table.

He took a deep breath.

“Show me . . . Show me Okukawa Minako,” He commanded.

Yakov’s brow furrowed in concern and Chris’s eyes went wide with alarm; both leaning in as far as they could in order to see.

A grey fog swirled across the glass, sweeping over the surface like frosty condensation as it transformed Viktor’s reflection into a new image before their very eyes.

There in the frame stood Okukawa Minako . . . outside in the bright noon-day sunlight, surrounded by a vast field of green behind a little wooden house; hanging laundry on a line to dry.

Speechless, Viktor lifted his padded fingers to trace the edge of the glass.

“It _is_ her . . .” He murmured at long last.

“She looks like she hasn’t aged a day . . .” Chris agreed breathlessly.

They sat there in stunned silence a while longer; Viktor tilting the mirror so the other two could see.

“Yes . . . she seems . . . she seems just fine, Vitya” Yakov hedged, “Now . . . why _exactly_ are you showing us this? We already –”

“Yuuri knows her,” Viktor mumbled distractedly, “or, she knows Yuuri, or they know each other. They –”

“How?” Chris gasped.

“ _She’s_ his tutor,” Viktor explained, his voice breaking over the words, “She’s the one who . . . _taught him to dance_ . . .”

Chris and Yakov looked to one another uncertainly, as Viktor slid off his knees, slumping to sit on the marble floor with his back leaning against the side of the bed. The mirror dangled limply in his paw.

“So what does this mean?” Yakov demanded, “Does Katsuki know?”

Viktor let the mirror drop to the floor, bringing his paws up to tangle in his mane.

“I . . . I don’t know,” He answered, voice shaking, “I don’t . . . she doesn’t remember, does she? She _can’t_ remember . . . and if she can’t then she wouldn’t have . . . so then he doesn’t . . .” Viktor choked, nearly on the verge of tears, “If she had . . . if she _could_ . . . then she would have come _home_ ,”

Viktor pressed the padded heels of his paws into his eyes, forcing himself not to cry.

 _This_ was why he never used the mirror.

It had been left behind by the enchantress . . . another one of her cruel tricks.

“. . . The important thing is that she’s _safe_ , mon petite bichon,” Chris soothed, settling on the side of the bed near Viktor’s shoulder, awkwardly stroking his mane with a stubby candle, “had she been here when the spell was cast . . .”

“She would have been cursed too,” Viktor finished, gathering his thoughts and steeling his nerves, “I know,”

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying desperately not to shake apart; even though the mirror could show him anything he desired, he rarely found comfort in it.

When the spell had first been cast, he’d used it often; keeping track of the goings-on in his kingdom; watching everything as it happened in real-time. He could see the whole world . . . and all those he cared about most.

For, even though they had forgotten _him_ , he still vividly remembered _them_.

But as time passed and the years dragged on, it became far too painful to look out into the bright beautiful world, while he remained hopelessly bound to the ruined keep of ice and snow.

And so, the mirror had fallen into disuse; shoved to the bottom of his drawers under layers of detritus and debris, where it remained safely forgotten for _years_.

He had picked it up again for the first time mere months ago, when Phichit had left and Yuuri had stayed; Viktor had only wanted to make sure Phichit had arrived home safely on his own, considering the injuries he had sustained.

Of course, he had _wanted_ to show Yuuri; to reach out to the beautiful dancer and put his mind at ease . . .

But then there would have been _questions_ ; questions about the mirror, the magic, the castle, the spell . . . and him. Questions which were better left unanswered; things that Viktor still could not bring himself to speak about.

“Just think, mon chou . . .” Chris continued delicately, “if Minako is still out there . . . then perhaps it has not been so long after all. Perhaps the _others_ are still –”

“They’ll come home once the spell is broken,” Yakov interrupted harshly, “Until then, there is nothing we can do. Isn’t that _why_ you cast aside the mirror in the first place, Vitya? Because it upset you so?”

“I’m not _upset_ ,” Viktor objected petulantly, “I’m just . . .”

Yakov rolled his eyes. Chris swatted the clock reproachfully.

Viktor took a deep breath, “Yuuri said . . . Yuuri said he started dancing when he was little, because his tutor . . . his tutor _Minako_ would tell him stories about . . . about her time at court. About . . . castles and balls and . . .”

Princes.

Viktor pressed on, his words shaky as a newborn fawn, “So then . . .  so then she must remember _something_? But . . . what? How much? And why . . ?”

Why hadn’t she come home?

Yakov sighed, “I don’t know, Vitya,” he replied firmly, “ _None of us_ have the answers those questions . . .”

Viktor hung his dizzy head.

“But . . .” Yakov continued, “we all know who _does_ ,”

Viktor swallowed hard, “Yakov . . . I _can’t_ . . .”

“You _can_ and you _will_ ,” The clock refuted stubbornly, “this nonsense of yours has gone on long enough, Vitya. You _have_ to tell Katsuki. _Everything_. By _tonight_.”

“Everything?” Viktor echoed numbly.

“ _Everything_ ,” Yakov asserted, refusing to give a single solitary inch.

Christophe looked contritely between the two, “he already knows that the Castle is enchanted . . . that much is obvious, Viktor,” the candelabra opined gently, “so . . . what harm could there be in telling him _why_?”

“He . . .” Viktor’s protest was barely a whisper, “He might . . . once he knows the truth . . . when he learns what I’ve done . . . when he finds out that _all of this_ is _my_ fault . . . he might hate me. What if he’s mad? What if he’s _ashamed_? What if . . . what if he _leaves_?”

Silence fell like the first snow of winter as Viktor’s world crumbled. He felt his chamber . . . his secret refuge, his hidden sanctuary . . . fall away all around him; no bed or stonework floor to keep him upright . . . the very walls peeling apart and exposing him to the cold, bitter reality of his own making.

“Of course it’s a risk, Viktor,” Christophe replied slowly; sober and serious for once in his life, “But . . . it’s a risk you have to take. Not for the castle, or for the spell, or even for us . . . but for yourself . . . and for Yuuri,”

Viktor felt his insides hollow out; no words, no thoughts, no feelings came to him in the abyss of his epiphany.

When Viktor did not speak, the candelabrum continued, “He won’t leave. The Yuuri I know would never do that,” His voice was strangely calm; unwavering and certain.

Viktor nodded. Christophe was right.

There was no point arguing anymore.

He couldn’t run away any longer.

He had no more excuses. The only thing standing in his way now, was fear.

But why should Viktor be afraid, when it was Yuuri he was running to?

Despite the spell, despite the failures and the secrets and the impossible odds, Yuuri had become his _everything_ . . . and that meant Yuuri deserved the truth . . . no matter what.

He could do this.

Viktor’s claws closed around the silver mirror and he pushed himself to his feet.

Bracing himself, he quit his chambers; shoulders square and strides determined. He had already lost everything once before . . . and he might lose everything again . . . but now, there was truly no turning back.

 

*****

 

Yuuri sighed.

His eyes rested on the kitschy brass knick-knacks atop the massive library fireplace, dazed and unfocused.

A Newton’s cradle, a gyroscope, a light mill, an hourglass, a globe . . . all unmoving, brightly burnished but covered in dust. He had been gaping at them so long, that the image of them playing sentry there on the mantle was surely branded into his memory for all eternity.

Yuuri slumped despondently in one of the leather sitting chairs, which he had casually maneuvered a few feet farther back from the fireplace; the book he had been perusing slid lazily down his lap.  

He had come to the library planning to do some more research, considering Viktor’s sudden absence this afternoon; his books still sitting in the piles where he had left them weeks before. Though he intended to continue sleuthing into the mysterious spell, he had, as usual, become distracted; and what a surprise that he should be distracted by thoughts of Viktor.

But he could hardly be blamed; his companion had been acting very strangely, after all.

Ever since this morning, Viktor had been hesitant, reticent, withdrawn . . . he hadn’t even _watched_ the second half of practice . . . he had practically raced from the ballroom the second they had finished . . . and Yuuri knew it was all his fault.

He had asked Viktor to dance again; making his companion uncomfortable and pushing him away once more.

It had been foolish, he knew . . . self-centered and reckless and careless; but Yuuri just didn’t _understand_.

Why _wouldn’t_ Viktor dance?

Viktor _loved_ dance; he was practically an _expert_. There was _no way_ he could have learned it all just by watching and studying; he _had_ to have been a dancer himself.

Besides, all of Viktor’s previous excuses had been thoroughly disproven; being ‘too clumsy’ on his paws, not wanting to ‘accidentally scratch’ Yuuri, being ‘unable to keep up’ . . . none of that was even remotely true, and Yuuri _knew_ it.

 _Viktor could dance_ . . . Yuuri could feel it in his heart, in his bones, in his very soul.

So, why _wouldn’t_ Viktor dance?

Was he shy? Did he have stage fright; or . . . ‘ballroom fright’, in this case? Did he honestly believe that he himself wasn’t any good?

Yuuri worried his bottom lip between his teeth. He genuinely didn’t mind sticking to the basics and keeping things simple, if it meant that Viktor would finally dance with –

Oh.

Yuuri’s stomach plummeted at his epiphany.

The question _wasn’t_ , ‘why wouldn’t Viktor dance’?

The question was, ‘why wouldn’t Viktor dance _with him_ ’?

Yuuri suddenly felt sick.

So . . . so alright . . . Viktor _could_ dance . . .  Viktor _loved_ to dance . . . Viktor just . . . didn’t want to dance with _him_ . . .

But . . . _why_?

Maybe Viktor didn’t actually think Yuuri was as talented as he claimed to?

That was _possible_ , Yuuri supposed . . . but seemed unlikely, considering Viktor’s virulent enthusiasm during practice.

So then . . . if it wasn’t Yuuri’s _skill_ which had turned Viktor off . . .

Then that could only mean . . .

Yuuri’s heart cracked like a melting glacier; icy bits plunging into the merciless depths of an arctic sea.

He had to admit that he hadn’t been the most _subtle_ about his . . . ‘feelings’ as of late. Perhaps, on some level, he had _wanted_ Viktor to find out, despite his own resolution to wait until the spell was broken before adding any more complications to Viktor’s life.

Whatever the reason, Yuuri certainly hadn’t been trying to hide his ‘affections’. And, while it was _possible_ that Viktor _hadn’t_ picked up on Yuuri’s . . . infatuation, it was _much more likely_ that he _had_. . . and that Yuuri’s feelings were simply not reciprocated.

Viktor was distancing himself; trying to let Yuuri down gently, just like he had every time Yuuri offered him a dance.

The realization stung; fizzling through Yuuri’s limbs and leaving him empty.

It was just as he had feared.

But it made sense, he supposed miserably. Viktor was nobility, after all. Once the spell was broken . . . things would go back to the way they had been before. Viktor would be remembered; he would regain his title, whatever it was, along with everything that came with it. Viktor would get his humanity back . . . he would get his status and influence and riches and responsibilities back . . . he would get his whole life back . . . a life that had no place for Yuuri in it.

Even just _thinking_ about it made Yuuri ache. It hollowed him out; slowly eating away at him, corroding his insides like acid.

Yuuri frowned; he shouldn’t have hoped.

He had been very foolish indeed.

Desperate to distract himself from his heartbreaking revelation, Yuuri forced his eyes sharply back down to the book in his hands; the wide anthology of fairy stories with the red binding.

He had grown tired of pouring over records; the children’s book had been as much a break as anything else. Yet even now, he could not bring himself to focus on the simple stories and hatched illustrations.

He glared at the flimsy tome as if it had done him a personal offense.

Magic and spells and castles and princes and balls and . . . _love_. . . it was nonsense; all of it.

He tossed the book aside gruffly, landing with a loud ‘ _thwap_ ’ on the mahogany floor.

Yuuri rubbed at his eyes; frustrated at the books, at the world, at himself.

 _Foolish, foolish, foolish_.

_Selfish, selfish, selfish._

Whatever happened between him and Viktor . . . whatever hopes did or did not come to pass, Viktor was _still_ his _friend_ . . . and he _still_ needed _help_.

Yuuri lurched forward in his chair, surveying the tomes scattered around his feet. Historical accounts, architectural inventories, outdated atlases, family records, genealogies, mythologies and fairy stories all lay sprawled in haphazard piles by his toes. He pouted, resting his chin in his hands as he debated where to look next.

“. . . Yuuri . . .”

Yuuri sprang up in his chair, startled out of his reverie by the one voice he _hadn’t_ wanted hear.

“Viktor!” Yuuri squeaked, swiveling around and craning over the side of his chair, “Sorry . . . I wasn’t expecting you,”

Viktor said nothing, his eyes cast down. In his paws, he clutched an exquisite silver hand mirror, intricately molded and glittering with crystals.

Yuuri slowly rose from his chair, moving steadily towards his morose companion.

“Viktor? Are you alright? What’s going on?” Yuuri queried softly; genuine concern overturning his earlier cynicism.

Something was wrong . . . _very wrong_. For the first time that he could recall, Viktor actually seemed . . . _afraid_.

“Yuuri . . . there’s . . . something I need to tell you,” Viktor murmured, “something I should have told you a long time ago,”

“What is it?” Yuuri breathed. A shiver ran up his spine; Viktor’s nerves, it would seem, were infectious.

The whole world grew just a little bit colder as he stood there, waiting for Viktor to continue. Time itself frosted over in the agonizing stillness.

“I wanted to talk about . . . I know that you . . .” Viktor huffed, running an agitated paw through his mane.

Oh no.

This was ‘the talk’.

This was the ‘I know how you feel, about me’ talk.

This was the ‘I don’t feel the same way’ talk.

This was the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ talk.

This was the ‘let’s just be friends’ talk . . .

Or worse . . . the ‘we should go our separate ways’ talk.

Yuuri went ridged; petrified with dread.

“V-Viktor, I –”

“Please, Yuuri . . .” Viktor all-but begged, “I . . . I have to . . .”

He took a subtle step closer to Yuuri, and heaved a deep sigh.

“By now,” He pressed on, “By now I’m sure you’ve noticed . . . certain _things_ . . .”

Yuuri braced himself for the impending blow.

“. . . About _me_ . . . about the _castle_ . . .”

Yuuri’s brow furrowed, his clenched muscles slowly unraveling.

“About the . . . castle?” He repeated quizzically.

Now he _really_ didn’t know what Viktor was talking about.

“Yes,” Viktor relented softly, “I . . . assume that you’ve noticed the strange goings-on? Even for an Enchanted Castle, there are more than a few . . . _inconsistencies_ ,” As he spoke, Viktor trudged slowly through the sitting area, as if he could distance himself from his confession, as well as Yuuri.

Beleaguered and befuddled, Yuuri just blinked, following Viktor with his eyes.

“It’s . . . it’s time you knew the _truth_ . . . it’s time you knew where the magic came from . . . . and _why_  ” Viktor came to rest by the unlit fireplace, his voice cracking on the last word.

Yuuri gaped a moment more, before it all finally clicked.

The spell!

Viktor was talking about the spell!

Of course!

Viktor didn’t know that Yuuri had already been told _everything_.

They had never _actually_ spoken about the spell before; with Yuuri being too shy, and Viktor too secretive.

So then . . . this _wasn’t_ about Yuuri’s feelings?

Then, that meant . . . that meant _nothing_ today had been about Yuuri’s feelings . . . Viktor had been distracted by something else _entirely_.

Relief washed over Yuuri; forcing air back into his lungs in a rush, like surfacing on the ocean’s bright blue waves after being plunged into its dark, briny depths.

“Viktor . . . it’s alright, I –”

“The castle is under a spell,” Viktor blurted unceremoniously. He could not look Yuuri in the eye, “The castle, the staff and I . . . we . . . we’ve _all_ been . . .”

“. . . cursed,” Yuuri finished gently, “I . . . I know . . .”

Viktor paused for a moment, taken aback by Yuuri’s admission. One paw suddenly grasped the mantle, as if to keep his balance; the mirror dangled limply in the other.

“You . . . know?” Viktor repeated slowly. He sounded so . . . lost.

Yuuri felt cold all over again.

Was Viktor . . . angry? Angry with _him_? For not telling him that he knew?

Regret surged through Yuuri’s veins as he scrambled for an explanation. He hadn’t meant any harm . . . he just . . . hadn’t wanted to upset Viktor, or bring up painful memories, or make him feel weak. He . . . he hadn’t lied to be cruel . . . he had only wanted to help. He hadn’t thought . . .

Of course . . . just like always, he _hadn’t thought_.

The way Viktor’s gaze scorched holes in the wooden floor almost made him flinch.

“P-please don’t be mad,” Yuuri whimpered, “I . . . I didn’t mean to . . . I wasn’t trying to . . .”

Viktor snapped to face him suddenly, and Yuuri almost jumped right out of his skin. But the look in Viktor’s eyes was not one of fury or loathing; rather concern and confusion.

Yuuri stopped suddenly, unable to continue.

“Yuuri . . .” Viktor’s voice was hollow and exhausted, “I’m _not_  mad . . .”

“But . . . you are!” Yuuri scrambled, “You’re _upset_ . . . you _seem_ upset . . .”

“I’m _not_ upset,” Viktor objected slowly, “Though . . . perhaps I should be . . . with _Christophe_ , I imagine?” His tone had become a little bit lighter during his inquiry.

Yuuri released a small, nervous chuckle, “Ah . . . yea. He . . . he told me . . .” the admission tumbled out reticently. Viktor _seemed_ to be teasing, but Yuuri was now in completely uncharted waters.

Viktor sighed, plunging himself into one of the chairs, depositing the mirror on a side table as he did so. He looked so . . . adrift; it made Yuuri’s heart break.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri blithered, “I should have said something before. I thought you knew that he . . . I mean, I never brought it up because I didn’t . . .”

Didn’t _what_? Didn’t think it mattered? Didn’t want to make things awkward? Didn’t want to get Viktor’s hopes up? Didn’t want to stop? Didn’t want to leave?

“I didn’t want to . . . pry,” he finished awkwardly.

Viktor nodded mutely, still looking for all the world like a lost little puppy.

“And . . . no one really tried to hide it,” Yuuri rambled, attempting to ease the tension and minimize the damage, “I . . . I just assumed it was one of those ‘unspoken things’ . . . ”

Alarm flashed in Viktor’s eyes.

Yuuri grimaced; _mercy_ , what was he _doing_? That wasn’t what he had meant! What was he even _saying_? Why couldn’t he just _shut up_?

“Even . . . even _you_ didn’t . . . I didn’t think you were trying to keep it a secret? I guess? When we were talking . . . and, and you were telling me all about your studies and the City Ballet . . . It’s just that you couldn’t have . . . I mean, I didn’t exactly think that you had been able to attend the ballet looking like –”

Yuuri froze, mortified.

 _Seriously_ , what was _hell_ was _wrong_ with him?

“. . . I mean . . . in your current state . . .” he finished weakly; pallid and shamefaced.

Forget ‘ _feelings_ ’ . . . Yuuri would be lucky if he and Viktor were even still _friends_ after this.

The silence stretched unbearably; though the fireplace was unlit, Yuuri was burning up from the inside out.

He had never been very good with words; but then again, Viktor wasn’t really either . . . and yet _he_ had managed to be there when Yuuri needed him.

Now, Yuuri was the one who needed to be there for Viktor, and he couldn’t think of a single comforting thing to say as the poor beast remained rigidly curled in on himself, crushed by the truth and unable to do anything but stare into the void of his own turmoil. 

The silence was _maddening_.

Yuuri fluttered like a leaf on the breeze, “Please . . . say _something_ . . .” he begged, his words weak and watery.

He couldn’t stand it; he _needed_ to hear Viktor speak. _Needed_ to know what he was thinking.

Viktor could scream, he could cry, he could tear Yuuri to shreds and banish him for all eternity . . . _anything_ was better than _this_ , this terrible, uncertain silence.

Viktor’s muzzle fell open, but no words came out.

Yuuri’s vision blurred. _Mercy_ . . . how _weak_ could he _be_? Viktor was the one who should be crying right now . . . not him. Not foolish, selfish Katsuki Yuuri.

“I don’t . . . understand . . .”

Viktor’s voice pinged softly at the edge of his consciousness. Yuuri scrubbed quickly at his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

Truth be told, he didn’t much understand either.

“How long have you known?” Viktor asked, his voice strained as he tried to keep his tone even.

Yuuri crumbled; there was no point in hiding it anymore.

“Since the beginning” he confessed, his eyes dropping to the floor in shame.

All the air in the room vanished, leaving a cold, vacant vacuum in its wake.

“. . . ‘the beginning’?” Viktor repeated; his question awash in denial and disbelief.

Yuuri felt his stomach lurch, but there was no going back, “Chris told me the very first night . . . after the feast. After I came to see you,” he explained, uncertain if he should say anything more.

“ _Chris_ . . .” Viktor hissed the name like a curse, swiping a paw over his tired eyes.

“He didn’t mean to!” Yuuri squeaked, “Phichit and I were leaving and I felt bad because I had upset you and I didn’t know what I had done wrong and he was just trying to explain and it sort of . . . came out. _He_ wasn’t . . . _I_ wasn’t –”

Viktor swallowed hard, “then why did you –?” he stopped speaking abruptly, deciding against voicing the rest of his thought.

Yuuri flinched as if he had been struck. He could only imagine how Viktor had meant to finish that sentence.

Then why did you lie to me?

Then why did you take advantage of me?

Then why did you betray me?

Suddenly, Yuuri jolted, his feet carrying him closer to Viktor, trying to close the distance and head off the next accusation, “I never meant to lie to you! I only wanted to –”

Yuuri choked on the end of his sentence, as his toe collided with a haphazard pile of books, sending them spiraling towards Viktor.

Yuuri froze; his heart didn’t even dare to beat.

Viktor scanned the books, then bent forward to scoop up the closest tome with a large, deft paw; the forest green genealogy. He skimmed the title; his face contorting in anguish as understanding took hold. His gaze darted briefly over the other titles, confirming his fears.

Yuuri’s lip quivered uncontrollably and he bit it hard in an attempt to stop the tremors from shaking him to his very core.

Viktor took a deep breath, “So . . .” he rumbled; his voice broken and distant and heavy as a stone, “So . . . _this_ is why you stayed . . . to break the spell . . .”

The book tumbled carelessly out of his paw, hitting the hardwood floor with a flutter of pages.

“No!” Yuuri yelped, “I mean, _yes_ , but . . . but not like _that_ ,”

“You only stayed to repay a debt . . .”

“No! That’s not –! I didn’t mean to . . .”

“That’s all this ever was to you . . .”

“No! Viktor, please! I swear –”

“ _Then why did you stay_?” Viktor snapped, finally meeting Yuuri’s eyes.

Yuuri sank to his knees under the force of Viktor’s glare; though it was not anger brimming in those beautiful arctic eyes . . . but heartbreak.

Viktor quickly looked away; his long silver mane falling across his eyes as claws dug into the leather arms of the sitting chair. 

Seismic shaking rattled Yuuri’s ribs as earthquakes of shame tore his world asunder, consuming him alive. 

“Because . . .” He murmured remorsefully, “I . . . had to. I couldn’t just . . . leave,”

Viktor twisted further in on himself, his head bowing lower and his paws clenching tighter.

Yuuri couldn’t stand it.

This was all _his_ fault.

 _He_ had done this.

Viktor was hurting . . . _because of_ _him_.

Yuuri shuffled forward slowly on his knees until he sat directly at Viktor’s feet.

He reached up, ever so slowly, to part the curtain of Viktor’s mane with gentle fingers, desperately trying to meet his sullen gaze.

Beneath the veil of silver, Viktor’s aquamarine eyes glittered with tears.

“Yuuri? What are you looking at?”

Viktor’s soft, silky locks felt oddly comforting tangled up in Yuuri fingertips. An unusual sense of calm overcame him as he spoke, “I’m just . . . surprised to see you cry” he replied numbly.

“I’m mad, okay!” Viktor huffed, pushing Yuuri’s hand away, “what should I do?”

Mad.

So, he _was_ mad.

He denied it before . . .

But it was true . . . Viktor was _mad_.

Not upset or withdrawn or tense . . . but _mad_.

Had he ever been _mad_ before?

Or had Yuuri just never been able to _tell_ when he was mad before?

The crumbling of Viktor’s stoic visage was staggering.

So, Yuuri didn’t let his hand fall; instead it followed the path of Viktor’s paw, gently guiding it into his own two trembling human hands. He held on tight, clinging to it like a lifeline; a silent plea not to give up . . . not to let go.

Viktor didn’t pull away, though his eyes still did not meet Yuuri’s.

“I’m sorry, Viktor,” Yuuri murmured, slow and sincere, “I never meant to hurt you . . . I only wanted to help”

“I know” Viktor relented, his words escaping as a whisper.

Yuuri _wanted_ to feel better . . . to be comforted by Viktor’s acknowledgement, but he could literally hear the pain still lurking in his tone.

They stayed like that for some time; desperate and apprehensive. 

Eventually, Viktor heaved a great sigh, tenderly dislodging himself from Yuuri, who reluctantly looked up to face him.

“Yuuri . . .” Viktor began, reticent and contrite, lacing his own paws together as he spoke, “You don’t . . . have to stay here anymore. I believe I’ve kept you from home long enough,”

An electrical current replaced the blood in his veins as Yuuri shot up straight, “What?” he barked, “No! Viktor, I can’t leave, I –”

“While I’m grateful for your efforts . . . the spell can’t be broken by books or bribery,” Viktor objected firmly, “believe me, Yuuri, I’ve _tried_ ,”

And the look Viktor gave him then was filled with such fondness, Yuuri thought his heart might tear in two.

“You don’t owe me _anything_ , Yuuri” Viktor asserted gently, “I can’t ask such a thing of you . . . I can’t allow you to stay –”

“Please don’t send me away!” Yuuri begged, interrupting sharply. He was ashamed of how desperate he sounded, but the thought of losing Viktor was too much to bear . . . he had to at least try.

“Wha –?” Viktor gasped, shocked by Yuuri’s sudden plea, “Yuuri, I –”

“Viktor, I’m so _sorry_ ,” Yuuri whimpered, “I know I made a mistake . . . I should have told you I was trying to break the spell . . . but please . . . please don’t ask me to leave!”

He felt himself folding inward; imploding.

He felt the tears prickle in the corner of his eyes and spill out the sides.

He knew this couldn’t last forever, what he had here with Viktor . . . but he thought they would have at least a _little bit_ more time together . . .

“Yuuri?”

He felt a warm, soft paw cupping his cheek, gently tilting his face up; tentative and uncertain.

Yuuri couldn’t help but turn towards it, reaching up with his own hand to hold Viktor’s in place.

“Yuuri . . . I don’t _want_ you to go,”

Another wave of tears cascaded down Yuuri’s cheeks; Viktor tried to wipe them away with his enormous thumbs, careful not to bump Yuuri’s glasses. He succeeded only in smearing them across his face; but Yuuri didn’t care.

Viktor looked as if he was once again on the brink of tears as well, “I don’t want you to go . . . but I can’t allow you to stay trapped here in the castle with me. I had thought . . . I had thought you _wanted_ to live here . . . I thought you had _chosen_ to stay . . . but . . . remaining out of _obligation_ . . . because of a _debt_ . . . it’s not the _same_ , Yuuri. There’s a whole big, beautiful world out there waiting for you . . . I can’t allow you to stay and waste your life on an impossible task. I won’t let you sacrifice your freedom for me . . . I can’t ask such a thing of you . . .”

Yuuri took a deep, shaky breath “You didn’t” he murmured.

“. . . Didn’t _what_?”

Yuuri tore himself away from Viktor’s caress, yanking off his glasses and swiping at his eyes with his sleeve, “You didn’t _ask_ me sacrifice _anything_ . . . you _invited_ me to stay . . . and I said ‘yes’,”

“I understand, Yuuri,” Viktor conceded, “you said ‘yes’ . . . but it’s about _why_ you said ‘yes’ –”

“I said ‘yes’ because _I wanted to_!” Yuuri objected sharply, “I _did_ choose to stay . . . but not out of _obligation_! I chose to stay because . . . I like it here. Because . . . Chris and Masumi and Mila and Sara and Yuri and Makka and the rest of the staff . . . they’re my _friends_. Because . . . it’s _beautiful_ here and . . . and I don’t _belong_ in The Village . . . there’s no future for me there. And, yes, I chose to stay so I could try to find a way to break the spell . . . but not because of the debt . . . because of _you_. Because you’re _important_ to me and _I wanted to help_ because _I care about you_! Is that _really_ so hard to understand?”

Viktor’s eyes went wide; he had probably never been so thoroughly chastised in all his life.

“Yuuri . . . I . . . I didn’t . . .”

“You _saved_ _Phichit’s life_!” Yuuri continued, “I will _forever_ be grateful to you . . . and I absolutely owe you . . . but it’s _never_ been about the _debt_. I mean, maybe that was _part of it_ . . . maybe it _started_ that way . . . but things have _changed_ . . . things are _different_ now. _We’re different now_. And . . . we _both_ know that we can never _truly_ be ‘ _even_ ’. I told you before, saving my brother’s life is a debt I can _never_ repay. Not even if I broke _a thousand_ spells. And . . . _this_ . . . _all of this_ . . . it’s always been _so much bigger_ than that. It’s . . . _so much more complicated_. Even that first night . . . after the feast, in your parlor . . . I didn’t offer you a reward because I _owed_ you . . . or so that we would be _even_ . . . I . . . I wanted to _thank_ you. I just wanted to show you _how much_ your actions meant to me. And, yes, when I found out about the spell, I wanted to break it . . . I _still_ want to break it. I want to _help_ you and the others _just as you all helped me_ . . . but not out of pity or obligation or guilt . . . _I want to help you because we’re friends_. . . because you’re good and kind and wonderful and you don’t deserve to be _cursed_ ,”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say . . .” Viktor murmured, his voice was light, reverent and almost star struck.

Yuuri swallowed hard.

“. . . say that everything is okay now?” he entreated, willing his voice not crack, “Say you’re not mad at me anymore?”

“Oh, _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor sighed; his name a reverent whisper, “I _wasn’t_! I . . . I was mad at _myself_ . . . not _you_. Never _at you_ . . .”

Yuuri nodded, slowly coming back to himself after the afternoon’s emotional upheaval.

“G-good,” he replied, scrambling for some semblance of control, “Because . . . I . . . I really _would_ like to stay . . . I’m not ready to go back to the farm just yet . . . so . . . so no more trying to scare me away, got it?”

Yuuri bit his lip nervously; his little jab there hadn’t come across _quite_ as light-hearted as he’d hoped.

He melted as Viktor graced him with a tiny little heart-shaped smile.

“I promise”.

Yuuri’s lips twitched up at the corners and soon he was beaming right back.

Viktor stood up slowly, taking Yuuri’s hand and pulling him to his feet as he did so.

His paw relaxed, as if he were about to let go; but suddenly he changed his mind, squeezing Yuuri’s hand tightly.

Viktor took a deep breath; silently coming to some decision in his own mind.

“Come with me,” he implored, equal parts fearful and excited, “There’s . . . something I want to show you,”

Yuuri just nodded, squeezing Viktor’s paw in return.

He didn’t have a chance to ask what or where, as Viktor was now tugging him along, out of the library towards their mystery destination.

The sitting area was left in silent chaos; disturbed chairs, scattered books . . . and a little silver hand mirror, carelessly forgotten on a redwood side table.

 

*****

 

The afternoon heat was even more oppressive than the morning’s; Isabella felt suffocated by her hunting jacket.

She gazed blankly at the heavy spruce door in front of her.

“LEROY”

The stately wrought-iron letters mocked her; it seemed that no matter what she did, she always found her way back here – to a home that would never be hers, and a man who could never love her back.

Isabella grimaced; it seemed J.J. would get his chance to be Yuuri’s hero after all.

She hesitated, dreading what she knew must come next; J.J. would do anything for Yuuri . . . but just how much would he be forced to sacrifice to save his precious Playboy?

Isabella could only hope that she and J.J. would be a match for . . . whatever it was they were up against.  

Katsuki had better be grateful for this.

Though she supposed . . . it wasn’t really Yuuri’s fault.

Nothing had been Yuuri’s fault.

All these flaming arrows, and nowhere to aim them; it seemed their fire would just consume her instead.

She pulled the iron skeleton key out of her pocket, sliding it into the lock. It rattled around a bit, finding no purchase, not allowing her to turn.

Was the door . . . unlocked then?

Suddenly, the solid spruce disappeared; revealing a smiling J.J., wearing his cardinal read tailcoat; pressed to perfection.

“Isabella!” J.J. chimed, “What luck! I was just on my way to see you!”

The huntress could do nothing but gape, “J.J.! You’re –”

“Come in!” The hunter beckoned. Isabella followed him insde as if in a trace, closing the door behind her. J.J. led her into the kitchen, where rations and gear lay spread out on the table.

“I thought about what you said,” J.J. continued, bustling to and fro, gathering more items from around the room and depositing them on the table with the others, “You were right,”

“I . . . was?” Isabella asked, dumbfounded. How had J.J. changed so much in such a short time?

“I’m still in love with Yuuri . . . I always will be” The hunter clarified, as Isabella tried to interject; derailed by unexpected conversation, “But . . . you were right. He’s . . . an artistic type . . . a ‘free spirit’ . . . that’s just who he is. But I’m not giving up on him. Someday, we’ll be together . . . but right now, he wants to run off and fool around and . . . do his own thing. He doesn’t want a hero. He doesn’t need . . . _rescuing_ ” the admission tumbled out almost sheepishly.

Isabella cringed; if only J.J. knew how wrong he was.

“So,” J.J. continued, pulling an empty canvas sack up onto the table, and packing the items inside, “I’ll wait. Until Yuuri is ready to settle down,”

“Settle down?” Isabella repeated slowly, her mind number than her body.

“Of course,” J.J. smiled, securing the canvas sack, which was now full to bursting, “You’ve said it over and over and over . . . I’m the most eligible bachelor in town. Anyone would lucky to be with me. The only reason Yuuri kept turning me down, was because he knew he was leaving. So, all I have to do is wait for him to get this . . . I don’t know . . . ‘ _wanderlust_ ’ out of his system and come to his senses. I’m sure he’ll figure it out. Eventually, he’ll get sick of The City and come home . . . and when he does . . . I’ll be here to welcome him with open arms,”

J.J. smirked, slinging the sack over his shoulder.

“That’s not . . . I didn’t exactly say that . . .” Isabella objected futilely; considering that advice was no longer relevant, as it turned out that Yuuri was not actually absent of his own free will.

“No, you did something better,” J.J. clapped a hand on Isabella’s shoulder, “You helped me figure it out on my own,”

Isabella swallowed hard; she supposed it didn’t matter anymore.

If they couldn’t defeat this Beast . . . then none of it mattered.

And if they _could_ . . . well then . . . she supposed she would just have to try and be happy for J.J. and Yuuri.

After being held prisoner by an evil Beast, she very much doubted the dancer would decline J.J.’s proposal a third time.

“That’s . . . great, J.J., I’m happy for you,” She said, trying to fill the hollow feeling in her chest with pretty lies.

J.J. smiled at her, pure and unguarded.

“So, what are you waiting for? Go home and grab your gear!”

Isabella stared blankly at her friend, “What . . . gear?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot already!” J.J. teased, “I believe _someone_ promised me a week-long hunting expedition,”

Isabella blinked; oh right . . . the sack, the supplies, the rations . . . not for a Beast Hunt, but something else entirely . . .

Did that mean?

But . . . they couldn’t leave now . . . they had to save Yuuri . . .

Didn’t they?

Something slimy whispered wicked thoughts inside her head.

What if . . . she didn’t tell J.J. anything?

What if she just forgot all about the dreadful exchange she overheard this morning? Pretended she had never gone to The Tinker’s Workshop? Pretended to believe that Yuuri was safe and sound in The City?

What if . . . what if she left with J.J. right now, and never looked back?

What did she owe Katsuki Yuuri anyway? Or The Tinker? Or the tutor?

Nothing; less than nothing.

And so what if something happened to them? Or The Village? It was their own fault . . .

“Hello? Isabella? Did you hear me?” J.J. goaded, waving a hand in front of her face.

She snapped out of her daze, “Yes. Of course. Let’s go right now!” She chirped.

“That’s what I like to hear!” J.J. crowed, “We’ll go pack your gear and head out tonight!”

Isabella nodded eagerly, grinning like a fool.

“Great!” J.J. exclaimed, stomping jubilantly towards the door, “This is going to be brilliant! Just you and me and the trees and the stars!”

Isabella’s insides fluttered.

Just you and me and the trees and the stars.

Just you and me . . . and the trees and secrets.

Just you and me . . . and the lies and the stars.

Just you and me . . .                                      

“Hey . . . you alright, Isabella? You don’t look so good,”

J.J.’s furrowed brow hovered into view. Isabella hadn’t moved a muscle.

It wasn’t right . . . it wasn’t fair . . .

J.J. was happy now . . . he had moved on, almost. He was at peace, kind of.

But . . . how happy would he be if he were to find out that she had kept this from him?

If something happened to Yuuri and J.J. found out . . . if something happened to Yuuri, and J.J. learned that Isabella had done nothing to stop it?

How could she ever face him again?

If something happened to Yuuri . . .

If something happened to The Village . . .

If something happened to J.J. . . .

How could she ever live with herself?

Isabella squeezed her eyes shut; it just wasn’t fair.

As much as she hated Katsuki Yuuri . . . she couldn’t just walk away.

J.J. was finally happy again . . . and now she had to go and ruin it.

A large hand pressed roughly against her forehead, “Are you sick? You have a fever or something?” J.J. asked gruffly; genuine concern suffusing his callous tone.

Isabella took a deep breath.

It was now or never.

“J.J., there’s something I have to tell you . . .”

 

*****

 

The setting sun dappled the rolling hills in splashes of pink and orange and violet; turning the grassy plains into a messy canvas of colours.

Inside the workshop, the air was stagnant and rosy; thick with humidity and smoke and fatigue.

“I mean . . . it’s not like I’m mad or anything. It’s just . . . it is what it is, you know?”

Phichit frowned, squinting as he delicately dragged a swath of pink paint across his latest project; the delicate detail brush poised precariously between his fingers. He sat at the North Workbench; the scent of paint and varnish and lacquer both aggravating and comforting. The familiar stench centered him, giving him some sense of normalcy.

The sky was starting to darken, and although the rooftop slats were still fully open, the shadows had started to irritate Phichit’s eyes as he painted; so he had lit the forge for a little extra light.

Yuuri wouldn’t have been happy about that, but Yuuri wasn’t here now, was he?

Besides, it wasn’t unusual for Phichit to stay up late; though he no longer had his own unique little lantern to light his workbench, as it had shattered into pieces somewhere in the forest.

“I know Minako had a point . . . it doesn’t _really_ make sense to go back to the castle . . . but to be honest, I don’t see any other option. I can’t just . . . sit around and hope, can I? I mean, maybe this break will be good for me, you know? Give me some time to screw my head on straight . . . but it’s . . . frustrating? Every second I sit here painting dolls is time I could be using to break the spell . . .”

Phichit trailed off, dabbing delicately at fussy wooden lips.

The dolls were a surprise for the triplets; he’d fixed their favourite one so many times, he figured he might as well make each of them one of their own.

It was a fun little project; easy and distracting. He was actually quite proud of the result; he had improved upon the design of the original doll, re-enforcing the delicate joints, and carving each to look like the triplet who would receive it. He had been working on them for some time, and now all that remained was to paint the final details, and give each a smooth coating of protective lacquer.

The girls were still grounded; or rather, they had been grounded again for trying to sneak out to the workshop during the first grounding. Phichit wasn’t certain when they would be back, but he estimated that by now, nearly enough time had been served. 

“And I guess . . . maybe this is selfish, but . . . I just miss Yuuri,” Phichit murmured, gently putting down the doll he had been working on to dry.

He immediately snatched up a second, brush at the ready.

“We should have set a time limit,” Phichit sighed, “You know . . . ‘if you’re not home in three months I’m allowed to come get you’ . . . that type of thing. I don’t even know if he’s okay. I mean, I know that Yuuri is . . . safe . . . probably. Call me paranoid, but who knows what may have happened after I left? I mean . . . what if it was all an act? Like . . . a trap? What if The Beast is actually . . . what if he’s not what he seems? What if Yuuri regrets everything and wants to come home? What if he’s miserable . . . or bored . . . or lonely?”

Phichit’s brush stilled, as he gazed numbly at the half-painted monstrosity in his hand.

Something constricted inside his chest; the truth strangling him from the inside out. He squeezed his eyes shut with a shaky exhale, “He’s . . . not miserable at all, is he?”

Hollow and hopeless, Phichit set the barely-finished doll back down on his workbench; propping his brush upright in the little jar of rosy oil paint.

“Maybe . . . I’m just hoping that he’s miserable . . . because I want him to want to come home?” Phichit’s voice cracked with shame, “Does that make me a terrible person?”

He dropped his eyes to the workbench, where Poppy was greedily inhaling the seeds Phichit had left out tonight. The soft _‘scritch scratch’_ and _‘pitter patter’_ of tiny paws filled the silence as the other mice explored the workbench. Knut and Bolt were feasting on corn kernels, while Cog, Spring, and Screw investigated the strange smells emanating from the many open jars of paints and lacquers and varnishes. Widget was curled up in the corner; fast asleep on first doll’s skirt.

“Well?” Phichit asked again, raising an impatient eyebrow.

Poppy stood up on her hind legs, sniffing the air; her nose twitching ever so slightly, causing her whiskers to flutter.

“Some help you are,” Phichit cooed, extending a hand for her to climb up into.

He cupped the field mouse carefully, bringing her closer to his face.

“At least _you_ like it here, don’t you? You’d never leave me for some fancy Enchanted Castle?” He asked sadly, gently petting Poppy with a single finger. He didn’t actually expect an answer, but he liked talking to the mice; it made him feel a little less alone.

Poppy squirmed in his hand; disappointed that Phichit was only bearing his soul, and not giving her more seeds.

“Traitor,” Phichit laughed, depositing her carefully on the workbench beside Knut and Bolt, “There’s still corn, if you’re that hungry,”

Poppy immediately clutched a single kernel; munching away.

“That’s what I thought,” Phichit sighed.

He knew he wasn’t being entirely fair . . . but things were . . .  complicated.

It had been obvious to Phichit, even in the short time they had spent there, that Yuuri had fallen in love with the mysterious and beautiful castle; its grandeur, its magic, its secrets . . . its fascinating staff and its enigmatic Master. 

Yuuri himself may not have realized, oblivious as he was . . . but Phichit knew his own brother well enough to understand what was really going on here. Yuuri had always been a dreamer, a storyteller, an artist . . . and though he had always virulently denied it, he was a romantic at heart.

It was the perfect place for Yuuri; no more poor provincial life, no more rumors, no more J.J., just endless days of magic and mystery with his exciting new friends.

Phichit frowned; even if he and Minako _did_ find a way to break the spell . . . he knew that Yuuri would _not_ be coming home.

How could he, when he’d finally found someplace where he truly belonged?

Phichit reached out across the workbench; gingerly picking up the half-finished doll and the pink-coated paintbrush, setting to work once more.

Poppy scuttled closer, sniffing at the large can of acrid lacquer finish with disdain.

A small, melancholy smile spread over Phichit’s features, “I know . . . terrible stuff, isn’t it? Smelly and flammable and poisonous . . . but at least it makes everything look pretty. And it makes a good wolf deterrent . . . if you're in a pinch,” he teased, supervising Poppy’s tentative exploration with a tender gaze.

Phichit watched the mice scurry about the bench, stuffing their faces and darting through the clutter; a litter of siblings, brothers and sisters safe and warm and happy together as they explored their forever home.

He couldn’t help but think of his own siblings; his dwindling family now scattered to the wind.

Mari and Yuuri had always stood up for him . . . protected him and advised him and supported him and kept him company. No matter what, they had always been there for him; he had taken for granted that they always would be.

Now, both of them were gone . . . and Phichit had no idea what he supposed to do next.

Phichit looked blankly at the doll in his hand; he supposed finishing the paint job was a good enough place to start.

With a deep breath he coated his brush once again, applying the cheerful paint in smooth, precise strokes.

He finished the second doll, and placed it gently beside the first.

Not too bad, if he did say so himself.

Phichit plucked the third doll off the table, once again setting to work.

“Does this look even to you?” Phichit asked, displaying his handiwork to the mice, who all promptly ignored him, “The light isn’t that great, so I can’t _really_ tell . . . but I think it’s a little bit –”

 _‘KA-THUNK CREEEEEEEEEEEEEAK CRASH_ ’!

The Workshop door was violently flung open; screeching on its rails.

Phichit jumped at the sudden intrusion; paint brush and doll slipping out of his grasp and clattering to the ground.

“ _Mercy’s sake_!” Phichit roared, his hands streaked with sticky smears of pretty pink; more likely than not, the doll's paint job had been ruined, “You know, most people _knock_ before –”

The words died in Phichit’s throat as his eyes settled on his unexpected guests.

There in the entryway, stood J.J. and Isabella . . . and _both_ looked furious.

“ _Tinker_ ,” J.J. greeted with a Cheshire smile, stalking towards the workbench; his paces were slow, measured and even. Isabella didn’t follow; instead, she rolled the rickety door shut, throwing the latch down to secure it behind them.

“ _Ignorant Brute_ ,” Phichit returned coldly, “To what do I owe this _unwelcome_  intrusion?”

“You know . . . you should _really_ start being nicer to me . . .” J.J. scolded, planting himself firmly in front of Phichit, nothing but the paint-laden workbench between them.

“Oh? And why is that?” Phichit scoffed, “ _Because you’re just such a swell guy_?”

J.J. grit his teeth; his grin hysterical, his eyes gleaming, “ _Because_ . . .” he hissed victoriously, “ _I know your little secret_ . . .”

 

*****

 

Viktor bolted up the grand staircase; racing towards his bed chamber. It was the second time he’d done so that day; but this time, he had Yuuri in tow. The gentle weight of the dancer’s slender hand anchored him; all at once centering him and spurring him on.

“Viktor!” Yuuri puffed behind him, “where are we going?”

“My chambers,” Viktor replied absently, still swept up in a wave of inspiration.

Yuuri had been full of surprises this afternoon, as always; though today’s earlier revelations were not something which Viktor could have ever prepared himself for.

And, fool that he was, all he had been able to think in that moment was, “ _why_?”

If Yuuri _knew_ about the spell, if he _knew_ what an utter failure Viktor was, if he _knew_ that the castle was doomed, then _why; why_ would he _ever_ willingly stay?

Then Viktor had been answered; his hopes dashed and heart shattered by those four agonizing little words . . .

“Because . . . I _had_ to”

Sacrificing himself repay a debt; Yuuri had resigned himself to a dark and dismal future on the arm of a beast.

It was more than Viktor could bear; he had broken down, weeping like an infant . . . right in front of Yuuri no less!

Fury and grief and heartbreak had consumed him; he could have sworn himself crushed under the weight of it. Fury at himself for being so foolish, for not seeing what was happening right in front of his eyes; for letting himself fall in love with someone indebted to him. Greif at the loss he knew had to come; the pain of setting Yuuri free. Heartbreak caused by his own selfishness; mortified that he had unintentionally imprisoned Yuuri, ignorantly inflicting injuries he could never remedy. Devastated to learn that he had hurt the one he loved most in the world out of sheer carelessness.

But . . . Yuuri hadn’t turned away.

He hadn’t left; in fact, he had begged to stay.

The doors had been thrown wide open . . . the storm had raged and the tides had churned, and yet . . . Yuuri had held fast.

And when the rain had passed, he had picked up the tattered remains of Viktor’s heart, and stitched it back together with a simple explanation.

“Because . . . I _had_ to”

Not an obligation . . . not self-imposed exile . . . not by force or command.

“Because . . . I _had_ to”

Loyalty . . . and longing . . . and love.

Viktor was unused to having others looking out for him; unused to people showing him genuine affection, without titles or ranks or favors or debts in the way . . . without strings attached . . . without demanding something in return.

Viktor was a Prince. It was his job to take care of his kingdom; and he had been very good at his job; carefully tending to his lands and people with fondness and devotion.

In order to do that, he had to be strong. He had to be swift and decisive. He had to be charismatic and clever.

He had to be perfect.

Perfection meant not showing weakness; it meant not expressing his own needs or desires . . . not allowing anyone to worry over him. 

So he supposed it made sense that he could not recognize it . . . when for once, _he_ was the one being cared for.

It had caught him off guard, to say the least.

But luckily, Yuuri had put him firmly in his place; and Viktor found he wanted to stay there forever.

Now that his heart was whole and hale once more, he wanted to tell Yuuri _everything_ ; feeling weightless and unstoppable.

He had to take a chance; he had to confess his feelings _now_ , while he still had the nerve.

And he knew just how he would do it.

“Your . . . chambers?” Yuuri asked, his voice breaking into Viktor’s reverie. They reached the landing with a small ‘ _thud_ ’.

Viktor slowed a little, so Yuuri could catch his breath.

“Of course,” Viktor confirmed, trying to not get ahead of himself, “why?”

Yuuri smirked a little, “Just clarifying . . . you’re saying there’s something you want to _show_ me . . . in your _chambers_?”

Unlike during the incident in the pantry, this innuendo was intentional.

Viktor threw back his head, roaring with laughter as he continued to drag Yuuri playfully down the corridor; feeling lighter than air.

Yuuri laughed along with him, and willingly kept pace.

At last, they reached the massive doors; which swung open gently at Viktor’s touch. He released Yuuri’s hand as they entered, holding the door open for the dancer.

Yuuri looked around the chamber with wide awe-struck eyes; Viktor had grown used to his abundance of gilded ornamentations, and often forgot how ridiculously opulent they were, though he loved them all the same.

The curtains to the wide balcony were pulled back, letting in the soft pink light of the setting sun; refracting beautifully off the glassy icicles beyond. Yuuri gazed out into the encroaching night with wonder.

Perfect.

This was perfect.

Everything was perfect.

“So . . . what did you want to show me?” Yuuri inquired softly, turning back to face him.

Viktor’s insides fluttered with embarrassment; he had been gawking again.

“Here,” he beckoned, calmer than he felt, gesturing towards an unassuming iron side table.

Yuuri drifted over to it and Viktor joined him, standing by his side, almost touching; nervousness creeping in once more.

A heavy, padded heap sat before them; innocent and unassuming, though Viktor knew what terrible magics lay beneath. Yuuri gazed at it quizzically, but said nothing, biting his lip adorably in anticipation.

Viktor reached out one massive paw to remove the heavy cover.

“Yuuri?” he asked suddenly, his claws halting; poised above the cloth, “What . . . what _exactly_ did Chris tell you that night? About the spell?”

Embarrassment coloured the dancer’s face, but he did not flinch away, “He said . . . that you were all human once . . . but then an Enchantress came here in disguise, and gave you a gift, in return for your hospitality . . . to repay you for your kindness. But . . . it was a trick. The gift was cursed. She transformed everyone . . . buried the castle in snow and . . . made the rest of the world forget that you exist. He said that only _you_ could break the spell . . . and that you didn’t have much time left before it became . . . permanent . . .”

Viktor’s brow crinkled in confusion, “that . . . is that _all_ he told you?” he asked suspiciously. It didn’t seem like Chris to omit any juicy or salacious details; especially when it came to Viktor’s love life.

Yuuri looked up at him owlishly, “Why . . . is there more?” he asked skeptically.

In lieu of an answer, Viktor slid the padded cover off the crystal rose case; exposing the shimmering flower beneath.

Yuuri stifled a gasp as Viktor proceeded to lift the case off as well, setting both it and the cover on the ground beside him.

The rose hovered ethereally before them.

Viktor had to smother a gasp of his own; now, well over half of the petals had thawed; rivers of red spilling over the frost, crimson and bloody and alive. The stem and thorns were crisp and vicious; emerald green and glittering.

Yuuri gaped at it, enraptured by its beauty, “Is that . . . a rose?” He asked breathlessly, “Why is it . . ? How is it . . ?”

“This rose . . .” Viktor explained, “. . . is the gift which was bestowed upon me by the Enchantress,”

Yuuri nodded mutely, understanding; still transfixed by the stunning artifact.

“It’s . . . obviously not _a normal_ rose . . .” Viktor continued, “It carries her enchantment, acting as a sort of . . . timer. I have only until the last petal freezes to break the spell. If the rose turns to solid ice . . .”

“Then the spell becomes permanent” Yuuri murmured, catching on quickly.

“Yes,” Viktor confirmed.

Yuuri did not flee or turn away, as Viktor once feared that he might. Instead, he merely leaned in a little bit closer, studying the rose as if it were a puzzle box; sussing out the best way to unlock its secrets.

“Chris said that only _you_ can break the spell . . .” Yuuri reiterated, straightening up, “is that true?”

“More or less?” Viktor conceded, unintentionally cryptic.

Though it was true that he couldn’t break the spell alone, that he would have to earn the love of another to lift the enchantment, Viktor wasn’t entirely certain exactly what that entailed. A kiss? A confession of love? A marriage?

Was it simply the act of him reconciling his own shortcomings which would break the spell? Or was it the connection he was meant to forge with his intended, which would unravel this web of despair?

Technically, it _was_ up to _Viktor_ to pursue that romance; _he_ was the one with something to lose in this scenario, not the hypothetical lover he was meant to take. So then, did that mean that the spell was _his_ responsibility alone? Or would his paramour have to shoulder some of the burden? Or both of them together?

It was all very unclear. Viktor found it almost impossible to explain; unable to give Yuuri concrete answers, when even he himself did not fully understand.

“More or less? What does . . . what is it that you have to _do_ , exactly?” Yuuri asked gently, tilting his face up to Viktor with a raised eyebrow.

Viktor normally would have taken the moment to savor Yuuri’s adorably befuddled expression, but now was not the time for distractions.

He took a deep breath . . . where to even start?

How could he explain? How could he make Yuuri understand? How could he discuss something so tragic, and then segue into a confession of love?

He had to be honest . . . but he couldn’t be _too_ blunt; informative but not overwhelming, truthful yet optimistic.

Maybe there was a way to . . . ease into it?

“In order to break the spell,” Viktor explained, “I must, in essence . . . correct a . . . a ‘character flaw’ . . . and improve myself to the Enchantress’ satisfaction”

He supposed that was _technically_ correct; more or less.

‘ _If you can learn to love another, and earn their love in return before the rose turns to solid ice, then the spell will be broken . . . if not . . . you will be doomed to remain a beast for all time_ ,’

So, that meant that Viktor had to become more _loving_ , right? More desirable? He had to improve his personality; he had to romance someone without the aid of his wealth or status or good-looks . . . that’s what it actually meant, right?

Forcing Viktor to become a better person; that was the _real_ intention behind the spell . . . if one looked past all the prose and poetry and flowery language, of course. Though it shamed Viktor to admit, it seemed that _perhaps_ he had not been as perfect a prince as he’d once thought; in the eyes of the Enchantress, at least.

Yuuri’s face contorted in confusion, “What? That’s so . . . _vague_. What does that even _mean_?” he pouted, “how are you supposed to do that? And once you do, how are you supposed to prove it to her?”

Viktor huffed a small laugh, “That’s exactly what I have been asking these many years,” he agreed fondly, “it’s a very . . . _ambiguous_ objective, to say the least,”

“Can I . . . ask?” Yuuri hedged uncertainly.

“Anything,” Viktor allowed; it would do no good to omit any details now.

“What . . . what’s the flaw?”

Viktor raised an eyebrow.

“Not that I agree, I mean! I don’t think you’re . . . I like you just the way you are! But, um . . . you said that the _Enchantress_ has something she wants you to . . . improve?”

Viktor gazed into Yuuri’s expectant eyes.

It was time.

Time to tell Yuuri everything; time to confess his love.

 

But . . .

 

. . . As Viktor looked into those hopeful brown eyes, the words refused to come.

Though surprisingly, for the first time ever, it was not fear which stayed his tongue . . . but love.

Yuuri was . . . perfect. Truly, genuinely perfect; not the shameless, selfish version of ‘perfect’ Viktor had once idealized. Yuuri was perfect in the same way a sunset was perfect; purely and ardently and effortlessly. Yuuri was good and kind and beautiful and brilliant and determined and talented and loyal and gentle and strong and selfless . . . because it was simply in his nature to be so.

Yuuri had proven himself to be Viktor’s truest friend.

Yuuri was more than willing to do whatever it took to break the spell.  

Yuuri would do _anything_ for Viktor, no questions asked.

But that was exactly the problem.

Yuuri had already given up so much; his home, his family, his time . . .

What else might Yuuri sacrifice, if only Viktor asked?

His future?

His dreams?

His heart?

The sick, sinking feeling from earlier seeped back into Viktor’s soul; he couldn’t do it . . . he couldn’t tell Yuuri how he felt.

Not now.

Not like this.

It suddenly felt _wrong_ . . . it felt like blackmail. It felt like manipulation.

Viktor was certain that Yuuri would not reject him; there was no doubt in his mind that, even if he were to go as far as propose, right here and now, Yuuri would say “yes”.  

And he wouldn’t even hesitate.

But . . .

If Viktor confessed his love now . . . in the context of the spell . . . then he would never know for certain if Yuuri genuinely reciprocated his affections . . . or if he only consented out of desperation; out of his determination and desire to help.

All because Yuuri _cared_ about him.

Viktor _loved_ Yuuri . . . and perhaps someday, Yuuri might truly love him in return.

If there was even the _slightest possibility_ that they could fall in love for _real_ . . . then Viktor had to take that chance. He could not smother the spark and freeze to death for fear that the flames might consume him.

If they cared about one another the way Viktor _thought_ they did . . . the way he _knew_ they could . . . then he had to trust Yuuri.

He had to trust himself.

If they both wanted this, then they would make it happen . . . no matter what. They would fall in love regardless of magic or time or distance. They would confess their feelings when they were ready. The spell would break when the time was right, and not a minute sooner.

The rose was thawing again, regaining its colour and blooming once more. There was no reason to be afraid. Not now. Not anymore.

“Forgive me, Yuuri,” Viktor answered at last, “But . . . I don’t think I should tell you”

Desperation replaced hope as Yuuri’s eyes widened, “I . . . Viktor, I know I haven’t . . . I know I’ve made mistakes . . . but I _promise_ –”

“Yuuri,” Viktor beckoned sweetly, gently taking the dancer’s hand in one enormous paw, “Please understand . . . I’m not denying you because I’m upset, or because you don’t deserve to know. You must believe me when I say that . . . you are more important to me than anyone else in the world. I would trust you with _anything_ . . . the rose, the spell, my life . . .”

My heart.

“Then . . . why?” Yuuri whispered plaintively.

Viktor took a deep breath, willing Yuuri to understand “It is my belief that the spell can only be broken, if the change that I make is _genuine_ ,” he began, “If I were to tell you _what_ I’m trying to do . . . then you would only try to help me. Which I _adore_ you for . . . but . . .”

“It would be forced,” Yuuri finished, “It . . . wouldn’t be real. You would just be pretending. Like . . . doing a good deed for a selfish reason? Your _motivations_ matter more than your _actions_ . . . and _that’s_ what will ultimately break the spell,”

Viktor squeezed Yuuri’s hand; he couldn’t have said it better himself, “Thank you,” he whispered.

Yuuri nodded sadly, “Then . . . then there’s really _nothing_ I can do?” he asked.

“I didn’t say _that_ ,” Viktor countered with a buoyant smile, scrambling to lift the dancer’s spirits, “Yuuri, I . . . I really _can’t_ break the spell without you . . . and you’ve _already_ done _so much_ ,”

Yuuri looked slightly taken aback, “But . . . I haven’t done anything” he objected softly.

“You _have_ , solnyshko,” Viktor returned mischievously, “just look at the rose”

Yuuri scanned the glowing flower a moment, very clearly perplexed.

“When you first arrived . . . on the day that we met . . . the rose had only _three_ red petals left . . . only _three_ , Yuuri. But, just look at it now . . .”

“How is that possible? Why did it . . ?” Yuuri’s brows scrunched together adorably. Viktor couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s _thawing_ . . . because of _you_ ”.

Yuuri looked up at him once again, his eyes wide with humility and disbelief.

“But I really _haven’t_ done anything . . . I don’t . . .”

Viktor glowed warmly at his companion, “I think . . . that you’ve been a very good influence on me, Yuuri” he flashed an impish smile which made Yuuri blush.

“Years ago, when the spell was first cast,” Viktor continued, “I . . . I did exactly what you did. I poured over every map and tome and file I could think of, just trying to find some way out; a hint . . . a clue . . . a loophole . . . anything. When I _couldn’t_ find a shortcut, I . . . resigned myself to my fate. I accepted that the only way out was to meet the requirements of the spell. But . . . if it meant getting my life back . . . then I was resolved to play the Enchantress’ game. I conceded to break the spell on _her_ terms; the way _she_ wanted me to. But, in my mind . . . _what_ she asked me to do was inconsequential . . . all I cared about was lifting the curse; out of obligation and spite, rather than willingness or desire.

“I didn’t realize . . . how much trying to break the spell would affect me. I didn’t . . . I couldn’t have imagined how much effort it would take. I didn’t comprehend the nature or magnitude of my task. It seemed impossible . . . obscured by my resentment . . . my bitterness . . . my coldness. I’m not proud to admit that . . . eventually . . . I gave up.

“And then . . . I met you,”

Yuuri was speechless; Viktor reached up, tenderly brushing a wayward lock of hair out of the boy’s eyes as he continued.

“For the first time, things don’t seem so hopeless . . . for the first time, I . . . I actually care. I _want_  to try. Not for the enchantress . . . not to break the spell . . . but for myself . . . and for _you_ , Yuuri . . . _you_ make me want to try,”

“Viktor . . .” His name was a breathless whisper on Yuuri’s lips.

“And I . . . _like_ it,” Viktor confessed, for once grateful for his furry silver mane, which was currently hiding a sheepish expression.

“You . . . like . . . what?” Yuuri repeated numbly; flushing cheeks completely exposed.

“I like . . . caring?” Viktor murmured, tilting his eyes to the floor, suddenly nervous for no reason, “The curse, the magic, the research, the years of loneliness, meeting you . . . all of it has had an impact on me. Everything I’ve done in pursuit of breaking the spell has . . .  _changed_ me . . . and I . . . like it. I _like_ who I’m becoming. I . . . I want to _keep_ trying . . .”

Viktor risked a quick glance at Yuuri, who was regarding him with open fondness, as always.

He held the dancer’s gaze, “I . . . I have to know if this could be . . . _real_ ”

Yuuri beamed at him, “Well, in that case . . . I hope that it is,” he whispered.

Viktor squeezed Yuuri’s hand, “me too” he agreed.

He slowly released his grip, feeling at peace for the first time in his life.

“I know this isn’t exactly . . . ideal,” Viktor expounded, shuffling to replace the crystal case over top of the rose, “I realize that by not telling you everything, I may be making this . . . more difficult. It might take longer to break the spell”.

The case made contact with the iron table soundlessly.

Viktor gazed at the shimmering flower, “But . . . I want you to know that I truly do care about you, Yuuri. And I want to thank you,”

“Thank . . . me?” Yuuri repeated bashfully.

“Yes,” Viktor smiled, turning to look at his beloved once more, “for trusting me . . . and forgiving my mistakes . . . and letting me try,”

Yuuri said nothing, too flattered to speak; instead, the dancer just beamed back at him, equal parts warm and proud and shy.

After a moment, Viktor turned to replace the padded cover; but just as he was about to drape the heavy material over the case, his paws stilled.

“Viktor?” Yuuri inquired gently, “Is everything alright?”

Viktor scrutinized the cover, wringing it pensively before tossing it right back onto the floor.

“Everything is perfect,” he replied, smiling at Yuuri once more in the ethereal glow of the magic rose.

Relief washed over the dancer’s features, as he returned the fond gaze.

As they stood together in the tranquil stillness, the sky beyond the window grew dark, turning the icicles outside from blushing rose quartz gemstones into deep, enchanting sapphires.

“Yuuri . . .” Viktor ventured finally, shifting closer “can I tell you something? Something I’ve never told anyone before?”

“Of course,” Yuuri replied immediately, “anything”

“It’s . . .” Viktor took a deep breath, holding it as he searched for what to say, "it’s . . . been so hard . . . living with this curse,”

Yuuri frowned sympathetically, “I can only imagine . . .” he offered, prompting Viktor to continue.

“I . . . I lost _everything_. The Enchantress . . . she took _everything_ ,” Viktor whispered, “My home is in ruins and my friends are in danger . . . and . . . it’s all my fault,”

“It’s _not_ ,” Yuuri objected gently, winding both of his arms around one of Viktor’s, linking their arms in a comforting pseudo-hug, “She _tricked_ you Viktor . . . she was cruel to you for no reason. It’s not _fair_ , you didn’t _deserve_ to . . . it . . . it could have happened to _anyone_. It _doesn’t_ . . . you’re _not_ . . .”

Yuuri started to sputter, searching for words; just as he always did when he got worked up like this.

Viktor smiled.

“All these years . . . I’ve been so _afraid_ ,” he confessed, his voice even and his insides still, “Every day the spell went unbroken just felt like another failure . . . I began to think I would never be free of it . . . that everyone would . . . perish . . . because of me . . . because of one stupid choice I made all those years ago . . .”

Yuuri didn’t say anything, looking up at Viktor with wide, plaintive eyes; desperate and uncertain, but warm and comforting all the same.

“But . . .” Viktor continued, shoulders relaxing and smile widening, “the funny thing is . . . I’m not afraid anymore,”

“You’re . . . not?” Yuuri asked curiously, both relieved and wary.

“Well,” Viktor hummed, “I’m not . . . happy about it, of course. I wish I _wasn’t_ bewitched . . . I _want_ to break the spell . . . but . . . it’s not as terrifying as it once was. It doesn’t feel impossible anymore . . . not with you here,”

And if a beast could blush, Viktor would have burnt up right then and there.

Yuuri smirked, “and now, you’ll never be rid of me,” he teased.

Viktor laughed, “I can think of worse fates,” he returned.

Yuuri leaned against Viktor, his head tilting ever-so-slightly to the right, squeezing tighter with his arms; Viktor brought up his other paw to grasp one of Yuuri’s hands.

“I know I can’t actually _do_ anything . . .” Yuuri murmured, “except, be here for you . . . but . . . you’ll let me know, won’t you? If you think of something? If there’s anything else I can do?”

Viktor slowly turned towards Yuuri, gently untangling their limbs to look into those big beautiful, warm, wonderful, perfect brown eyes.

“Just . . . stay close to me?” He entreated.  

Yuuri wrapped his arms around Viktor in a tight hug; beaming face nuzzled into his broad chest.

Viktor clung to Yuuri, bowing his beastly head.

For once in Viktor’s life, everything felt right; spell or no spell, there was nowhere he would rather be than right here, right now, wrapped up warm and safe in Yuuri’s sweet embrace.

 

*****

 

The setting sun dappled the rolling hills in splashes of pink and orange and violet; turning the grassy plains into a messy canvas of colours.

A warm breeze blew Minako’s long, loose hair into her eyes as she gruffly tugged her laundry off the line.

It was mostly dry now, and she wanted to collect it before dark; she had learned the hard way that the people _out here_ were not above nicking another’s linens under the cover of night.

She yanked at another sheet; restless and frustrated. It billowed heavily into her beat-up wicker basket. A ladybug crawled merrily over the handle.

“At least _someone_ around here is happy,” Minako huffed, as she gently cupped the little critter and placed it onto the grass.

She whipped back to the line, roughly pulling down another sheet; sending the clothespins spiraling to the ground.

Happy.

Happy, happy, happy . . .

She had _tried_ to be happy here in The Village.

She pretended to be happy here, at least . . . and some days, it almost worked . . . the pretending. Those were the days that she spent tutoring Yuuri; the stories and lessons and _danses à deux_ in her little wooden cellar . . . those counted as happy days, didn’t they?

She had found some peace, at least . . . if not actual joy.

In any case . . . she had come to terms with her lot in life; she had put the past behind her, found a way to support herself and keep a roof over her head. She had made a name for herself, even all the way out here in the country.

More importantly, she had Yuuri and Phichit; real friends who cared about her, who understood her. Friends who made this awful place slightly less unbearable . . .

Then, all of a sudden, Yuuri had disappeared; throwing her life into chaos once more.

And now . . . she was as lost as he was.

Beasts and spells and magic . . . all manner of impossible things . . .

Because that’s what they were. Impossible.

And yet . . .

Minako growled, yanking angrily on a little dishcloth; bouncing the line and sending her other articles fluttering onto the grass below.

She groaned, sinking to her knees to collect her wayward washing.

A blouse, a skirt, a doily; she snatched them all up and chucked them into her laundry basket.

Minako quickly scanned the grass to double-check he hadn’t missed anything, when out of the corner of her eye, she spied a little white handkerchief. She gasped, quickly snatching it up before the wind could blow it away. The tips of her fingers curled desperately around the square of linen, and she drew it reverently to her chest; soft lace trimmed the edges and tickled her palm.

Maybe . . . maybe she could remember _this time_ . . . if she _really, really tried_ . . .

Clutching the handkerchief in both hands, Minako closed her eyes.

She . . . she had been travelling. See was supposed to go to see . . . _someone_. Or she had been _coming back_ from seeing someone? There . . . there was a boat and a port and a road in the woods . . . and then . . .

Then she had woken up in The Village Inn. Some travelers had found her wandering around in the forest in the pitch black night and taken her back with them.

And Minako couldn’t remember a thing.

Amnesia, the doctor had said.

He said to rest.

He said to take it easy.

He said not to rush.

He said to stay put in The Village.

He said someone would be looking for her.

“Don’t you worry, miss! A pretty young thing like you – I’m sure there’s a handsome lad or lovely lady out there trying to find you this very minute!”

That’s what he had said.

He said to wait.

He said to be patient.

He said she might remember someday.

But it had been 20 years . . . 20 years since she had woken up, scared and confused and far from home, with no idea where to go . . . and no idea where ‘home’ even was.

So, she had persevered, she had taken care of herself, and she had waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And when no one had come for her, she had settled in, built herself up anew, and given up on ever reclaiming the life she had once lived; the person she had once been.

But it hadn’t _all_ faded away . . . not like she had hoped it would; not like she had wanted it to.

No. That would have been much easier.

Though she had no memories, she still retained certain . . . skills; certain habits and inclinations and mannerisms . . . things she couldn’t have done, things she couldn’t have _known_ unless she had once been nobility.

It came to her in flashes; in shifting shades and moving shadows; in bolts of inspiration and muscle memory, soaked into the skin and bones of her very being. She could see it in her periphery, recalling feelings and figures, but not faces or names; like losing the end of a sentence part way though speaking it.

So she had turned her inexplicable skills into a career; relying on her intuition to see her though each day and fashioning a new persona out of grandeur and lies, refusing to either marry or move, remaining aloof and mysterious and unattainable . . . the same as she had counseled Yuuri to be, only a few months prior.

Castles and princes and balls filled her dreams by night; uncertainty and sorrow and regret and filled her mind by day.

And now . . . _now_ . . .

Now it was _possible_ , however _remotely_ , that her only friends in the world had unwittingly delivered her the answers she had once so desperately sought . . . the answers she had given up all hope of ever finding.

Would it really be _so_ terribly foolish to hope once again?

Not amnesia . . . but a spell.

Not a prince . . . but a beast.

Not the end . . . but the beginning.

And not she, but Yuuri, who would finally set them all free.

Minako slowly opened her eyes, unfurling the little handkerchief; her most prized possession in the world.

It was one of the few things she’d had on her when she had awoken in The Village, carefully folded and tucked into her bodice, right next to her heart.

Golden thread glimmered in one corner; an elegant, swooping monogram.

“V.N.”

“N” . . . for “Nikiforov” . . . like “Nikiforov Manor”? The same Nikiforov Manor which mysteriously disappeared 20 years ago, along with all her memories?

It seemed too fantastical to be true.

She had previously assumed those to be the initials of a long lost lover, as the doctor had once suggested, but now . . .

 _Now_ . . .

Minako hadn’t told Phichit . . . she hadn’t told him any of it. She didn’t want to get his hopes up . . . but they were facing a dead end, with no other leads . . . and after the way things had ended between them this morning . . .

Perhaps . . . perhaps _now_ was the time.

Minako tucked the handkerchief away tightly, next to her heart, as always.

“Nikiforov” . . . that was a Northern name . . . Minako herself wasn’t Northern . . . although, in a Mosaic Province like this, that hardly mattered.

She pushed the rest of her washing firmly down into the basket, scooping it up as she stood; heading back around to the front door of her humble little house.

So . . . Northern names which started with “V”. . ?

Vlad?

Vlad Nikiforov?

Vanya Nikiforov?

Vasily Nikiforov?

 _‘BONG’, ‘BONG’, ‘BONG’_!

Minako snapped to attention.

That sound . . . The Village warning bell . . .

 _‘BONG’, ‘BONG’, ‘BONG’_!

She dropped the wicker laundry basket at her doorstep, darting out towards the street.

As she came closer to the Town Square, she saw others; young men hollering and racing over the cobblestones as old ones shook their heads; gossipy ladies leaned out their windows to watch as Mothers ushered their children inside.

Minako snatched at the sleeve of a passing villager; Damien Dupont, a lanky, humorless seventeen-year-old; a good friend of J.J.’s, and a regular member of his hunting party.

“What’s going on?” Minako demanded, assertive and collected as always.

Damien glared at her, yanking his arm away with a toss of his long, flaxen hair.

“Fire,” he grunted, “outside of town,”

“Where?” Minako urged, “ _Where_ outside of town?”

Damien continued to scowl, “Why don’t you go ask your friend _The Tinker_?” he sneered, “. . . I always _knew_ that loon was _dangerous_ ,”

He sped away without another word.

Minako’s hands twisted in her skirt, holding it aloft as she pushed her way into the dizzying throng of people; all racing towards the small cottage on the hill outside of town.


	8. The Invitation, The Atlas & The Warrant: Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations come with the dawn; the Morning After.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, Friends! Chapter 8 is here, Woo!!!
> 
> Well, part of Chapter 8.
> 
> The next couple "chapters" are going to be a little bit different. We've gotten into the busy season at work, which means I don't have much spare time to write - apparently there's some sort of big holiday on the 25th or something? I don't know, I usually reserve December 25th for celebrating the birth of 5-Time World Champion, Viktor Nikiforov.
> 
> Anyway, since I didn't want to keep you waiting, I decided to to take my original plans for Chapter 8 and break them into smaller parts, so I could post them as the sections were completed, instead of making you all wait like, 2 months for one big long chapter. (ESPECIALLY with that Phichit cliffhanger - gotta find out what happened to our sweetest boi!)
> 
> Long story short, the next few chapters will be shorter - but hopefully more frequent? *fingers crossed* (Depending on overtime at work.) Then we'll go back to normal chapter length/posting (probably?)
> 
> So, thank you again for reading, and enjoy Chapter 8, Part 1- The Invitation, The Atlas & The Warrant: Morning.  
> (To be followed by Part 2 - The Invitation, The Atlas & The Warrant: Afternoon, and Part 3 - The Invitation, The Atlas & The Warrant: Night)
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @silverscribblesuniverse
> 
> TECHNICAL NOTES:
> 
> As always, if you see anything weird in my translations, let me know and I'll fix it! FIND TRANSLATIONS IN THE 'END NOTES'
> 
>  
> 
> ***CONTENT WARNINGS
> 
> This Chapter contains DEPICTIONS OF FIRE/DESTRUCTION CAUSED BY FIRE
> 
> LANGUAGE AND/OR VIOLENCE - THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MORE FREQUENT STRONG LANGUAGE
> 
> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MENTIONS OF SEX AND SEXUAL INNUENDO.
> 
> ***A NOTE ABOUT NON-CON/DUB-CON:
> 
> As previously noted - this work involves themes regarding unwanted romantic/sexual advances and the rejection of personal autonomy. These themes can be a sensitive subject for many, so please proceed with caution.

The air was still and stale, reeking of straw and mothballs and varnish.

Phichit shifted uncomfortably on his little mattress; limbs numb and heavy as lead. The rough, handmade blankets pressed uncomfortably against his cheek and his leather apron caught beneath him as he tried to turn over.

Right . . . the apron. He hadn’t bothered to take it off last night.

That’s where the varnish stink was coming from.

The first rays of morning light began to creep in through his little window; turning the walls from a dark dreary gray, to a slightly less dark, yet still very dreary gray.

Phichit hadn’t slept; every time he closed his eyes, his mind filled with images of the night before.

 

 _‘KA-THUNK CREEEEEEEEEEEEEAK CRASH_ ’!

The door screeched on its rails.

 

 _‘KA-THUNK CREEEEEEEEEEEEEAK CRASH_ ’!

The wooden doll dropped to the floor.

 

 _‘KA-THUNK CREEEEEEEEEEEEEAK CRASH_ ’!

J.J. and Isabella towered above him.

 

 

 _‘KA-THUNK CREEEEEEEEEEEEEAK CRASH_ ’!

The Workshop door was violently flung open; screeching on its rails.

Phichit jumped at the sudden intrusion; paint brush and doll slipping out of his grasp and clattering to the ground.

“ _Mercy’s sake_!” Phichit roared, his hands streaked with sticky smears of pretty pink; more likely than not, the doll's paint job had been ruined, “You know, most people _knock_  before –”

The words died in Phichit’s throat as his eyes settled on his unexpected guests.

There in the entryway, stood J.J. and Isabella . . . and  _both_  looked furious.

“ _Tinker_ ,” J.J. greeted with a Cheshire smile, stalking towards the workbench; his paces were slow, measured and even. Isabella didn’t follow; instead, she rolled the rickety door shut, throwing the latch down to secure it behind them.

“ _Ignorant Brute_ ,” Phichit returned coldly, “To what do I owe this  _unwelcome_  intrusion?”

“You know . . . you should  _really_  start being nicer to me . . .” J.J. scolded, planting himself firmly in front of Phichit, nothing but the paint-laden workbench between them.

“Oh? And why is that?” Phichit scoffed, “ _Because you’re just such a swell guy_?”

J.J. grit his teeth; his grin hysterical, his eyes gleaming, “ _Because_  . . .” he hissed victoriously, “ _I know your little secret_  . . .”

Phichit froze.

No; not possible.

He and Minako had been so careful . . . they hadn’t told anyone a thing, they hadn’t left out any papers, or signs . . .

Unless . . . maybe . . .

Maybe J.J. didn’t _actually_ know . . . maybe he was talking about something else entirely. The hunter _was_ prone to flights of fancy, after all.

Phichit’s heart pounded almost out of his chest; Mercy, if only Minako were here . . .  she was much better at this sort of thing than he was. She would know what to do.

Okay . . . so . . . he just had to be like Minako, right?

Stuffing down his panic, Phichit cleared his throat, eyes flicking down to his splattered hands, “You’ll have to be more specific,” he returned eventually, swallowing hard. He hoped his tone came across as disinterested, rather than defensive.

J.J. slammed his fist down on the workbench, hard, startling the mice and sending them skittering in all directions.

“WHAT THE _HELL_ IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

“WHAT THE HELL IS _WRONG_ WITH YOU?”

Both J.J. and Phichit roared in unison.

“You scared the mice!” Phichit admonished, his ersatz poise scattered like the frightened critters that now scurried about his feet.

“You care more about some stupid _rats_ than your own brother?” J.J. spat.

So this _was_ about Yuuri . . .

Not good. NOT GOOD.

Warning bells went off in Phichit’s brain, drowning out what little logic still struggled to breach the surface of his weary mind.

Phichit’s paint splattered hands curled into fists, “How _dare_ you . . . do you have _any_ idea –”

“Haunted castle, magic spell, hideous Beast . . . I think I’ve got the gist,” J.J. spat, his eyes steady and full of steel, locking on Phichit like a rabbit at the end of a rifle.

Something ugly swelled inside the inventor’s chest.

He _knew_ , somehow, J.J. _knew_ . . .

All cordiality fled, as the warning bells blared louder; demanding that he get rid of the hunter _immediately_.

Deflect! Distract! Destroy!

Phichit grit his teeth, “It’s an _Enchanted_ Castle, you _ignorant buffalo_. Now, I don’t have any idea how you found out about –”

“Isabella overheard your little screaming match this morning,” J.J. huffed, “So, here’s what’s going to happen . . . you’re going to tell me where this _haunted castle_ is, and I’m going to go save Yuuri,”

“Pfft,” Phichit snorted, “you must  _really_  be desperate if you think _I’m_ going to tell you where Yuuri is,”

J.J. gave the workbench a violent shove towards Phichit; rocking him where he sat and sending all manner of paints and lacquers splashing over the tops of their jars, onto Phichit’s dolls, his hands, his apron. 

“DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING IN MY WORKSHOP!” Phichit snapped, clinging to the one thing in his bitter, broken world that still made any semblance of sense; the one thing that would always be constant; the one thing that _hadn’t_ changed, “How many times do I have to tell you? For all you know, these things could be dangero– ”

“Why are you being so _difficult_? I’m trying to _help_ you here, you little weasel!”

“You’ve got a sick way of showing it!”

“I know we’re not exactly _friends_ , but if you had just _told_ me –”

“Oh sure, this is all _my_ fault,”

“WELL IT IS!” J.J. growled; Phichit glared back.

A fragile silence filled the air as they stared one another down. Not even the mice scuffled in the stillness. 

“And how do you figure _that_ , genius?” Phichit challenged, cocking an eyebrow defiantly.

J.J. just smirked, “It must really hurt . . . that leg of yours, I mean”

The workshop froze as the blame hung between them; suspended in time. Isabella lurked near the south workbench, inspecting the leaflets littering its surface.  

“Not that I would _know_. . .” J.J. continued, straightening up, “I’ve _killed_ a lot of wolves in my day . . . never been stupid enough to get _caught_ by one though,”

“Get out,” Phichit seethed, his eyes tethered the floor so that J.J. could not see the tears that were brewing there.

“Good thing you have a brother like Yuuri looking out for you . . . you know, always willing to bail you out . . . take the fall . . . clean up your messes . . .”

“GET. OUT.” Phichit’s very soul was shaking to pieces.

“And now, you can’t even return the favour . . . it’s been _months_ and you _still_ haven’t gotten him back! If you had just _left this to me_ , Yuuri would be _home_ by now!”

Phichit shattered.

“Like _hell_ he would be!” Phichit snarled, cruelty colouring his tone and riding roughshod through his veins. He sneered viciously up at the hunter in the crimson tailcoat.

For a single second, J.J.’s confidence wavered, “Wha – ?”

“Yuuri would _never_ go _anywhere_ with you!” Phichit hissed; tongue lashing, words cracking like a whip, “Yuuri can’t even stand the sight of you! Yuuri _hates_ you! _He’s always_ _hated you_!”

“You take that back, or I swear –”

Phichit launched himself to his feet, the seat of the workbench clattering to the ground behind him, “Yuuri would _rather die_ than –!”

A rush of wind, a crimson blur; Phichit’s workshop bloomed into a messy, stinking rainbow, as the jars of paint and lacquer were flung violently off the workbench.

Glass pinged in every corner as the fragile containers shattered against walls, against benches, against the forge; exploding into slick, dripping fireworks of shiny, poisonous sludge.

A tidal wave of clear lacquer drenched Phichit; oozing all down the front of his worn leather apron; it was in his nose, his mouth, his hair.

He gagged, heaving wads of toxic spit into the dirt as he furiously scrubbed at his face with his sleeve, towelling up as much of the acrid varnish as he could.

The sides of J.J.’s sleeves were stained from where he had swiped at the containers; the ground was soaked through, drenched with acetone and ether and dye. All over, the packed earth was littered with fragments of glass; large and jagged like icicles, small and glittering like snowflakes.

“ _Tell me where the Castle is NOW_ ” J.J. threatened, “ _Or that’s not all I break_ ,”

Phichit’s head swam with the stench; he couldn’t answer, he couldn’t even think straight.

Where was Minako? Shouldn’t Minako be here? He needed Minako, he needed Yuuri; why had he pushed them away?

Phichit’s eyes stung with unshed tears as he bit his bottom lip; it tasted of paint.

He needed to . . . to wash it off . . . wash it off now . . .  

But J.J. was still here . . . why wouldn’t he just . . . _go away_?

“Spit it out, Tinker! We don’t have much time! Just tell me already!” J.J. thundered, somewhere in the distance.

“TELL ME!”

“ _He_ doesn’t have to . . .”

Phichit turned numbly towards the sound of Isabella’s voice.

He’d forgotten she was even there.

She was holding something aloft between two gloved fingers; a piece of . . . parchment?

“. . . I found his _map_ ,”

The room spun as Phichit desperately grasped for his bearings.

“No . . . _don’t touch that_! It’s mine!” He barked, rasping as he accidentally licked the lacquer on his lips.

“Nikiforov Manor, hmm?” Isabella taunted as she strolled over to J.J.

Phichit cursed himself; why had he written that down? Why had he marked the hidden path?

“Sure sounds like the lair of an evil beast to me,” Isabella opined, settling beside the hunter.

Phichit’s head swam and he screwed his eyes shut; something was wrong with that sentence.

“He isn’t . . .” Phichit objected weakly

“Isn’t _what_?” J.J. snapped

“Evil . . .” Phichit gasped. Everything reeked of paint fumes; thank mercy the slats in the roof were open. He stumbled around the side of the workbench, begging the hunters to understand, “He’s a little . . . cold . . . but he’s _not_ evil!”

J.J. let loose a derisive snort, “As if I can believe anything you say,”

Phichit needed to get that map back . . . needed to get it back now.

Get rid of it.

Destroy it.

His fuzzy eyes settled on the smouldering forge.

Isabella turned to hand the map to J.J., but Phichit was faster; lunging forward and snatching it out of her hand as he barreled between them, his sights set on the fire.

Clumps of sodden dirt clung to his shoes as he stomped his way closer; he felt the heat of the forge and slid to a stop. Then he leaned back, covering his face as he let loose the parchment.

It landed briefly atop the cinders.

Phichit fell to the ground, yanked back by his collar, as J.J. followed the map into the flames.

“DON’T!” Phichit cried.

But it was too late.

The map had been rescued, but one corner still smouldered, as did the hem of J.J.’s sleeve.

Panicking, J.J. lost his grip, and the burning map fluttered to the chemical-soaked dirt below.

The lacquers ignited, tracing a trail of flame across the workshop floor.

Phichit rolled out of the puddle he’d landed in before the fire could reach him; covering himself in mud as J.J. slapped at the little cinders on his sleeve.

By the time the hunter had put himself out, the fire had spread across the sodden dirt to the north workbench, which instantly went up in flames.

Phichit pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.

“GET OUT!” He screamed, “GET OUT!”

This time, J.J. and Isabella scrambled to obey; Phichit heard the metallic whinging of the latch, the creaking of the rail as the barn door rolled open.

He struggled to his feet, coughing and hacking as he dashed over to the closest barrel of rainwater.

He could _stop_ this . . . _he could stop this_ . . .

With a single-minded focus, Phichit drenched his face and chest with freezing rainwater, submerging his sleeves before shoving the barrel over and dousing the scorching earth.

A few flames flickered out under the torrent, but the workbench was still alight and more flames were exploding to life as they reached each shattered pot and pool of paint.

Phichit turned over the second barrel as close as he could to the north workbench . . . yet the fire still raged on.

Now the center workbench had caught, and the pile of scrap wood and detritus too. The air was darkening, filling with smoke and smog.

“No . . .” Phichit quivered, paralyzed by the roaring ribbons of red and orange and yellow, “No . . . not again . . .”

Suddenly he felt a sharp yank on his arm; his feet left the ground as he was hoisted up over a broad, crimson shoulder.

Then he was outside, stumbling to his knees as he was dumped roughly to the ground under the watchful eye of the twilight sky.

Then there were . . . people. So many people . . . a whole crowd of them, yelling and screaming and running around; but Phichit barely took notice, stupefied by the gluttonous golden flames now consuming his life’s work.

The fire licked its way up the sides of the workshop, as The Villagers scrambled to douse it with little buckets of water from the well.

The fools.

They were too late.

The fire wasn’t spreading; the packed earth and shale ringing the barn was doing its job well; acting as a twisted, makeshift fire pit in which in the inferno could rage.

There was nothing left to do now, but let it burn itself out.

A creak, a groan, and the roof caved in, crumbling into the black, ashen heat; a plume of sparks rose like a phoenix in its wake.

It was . . . gone.

Everything was gone.

Phichit couldn’t close his eyes; couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t look away.

Voices murmured all around him as The Villagers started to dissipate.

“We were just . . . coming for a surprise visit . . . mercy knows the poor guy could use some more friends . . . it’s a good thing that we happened by . . .”

That voice.

_J.J._

“The whole place was up in flames when we got here . . . I’m just glad I was able to pull him out –”

“LIAR!” Phichit roared, springing to his feet, “LIAR! I’LL KILL YOU WHERE YOU STAND!”

He was breathing hard, hyperventilating as his dizzy mind tried to catch up with the scene before him.

Captain Nishigori, interviewing J.J. and Isabella about the ordeal . . . and they were _lying_.

“Alright,” The Captain soothed; he was pulling out his fatherly voice now, “just . . . take it easy Phichit, you’ve been through quite – ”

“He started the fire!” Phichit accused, pointing a shaking finger at J.J., whose eyes went wide and innocent.

“He . . . he threatened me! He smashed my paints! Spilled the varnish . . . and they were trying to steal my – ”

Phichit stopped short; swaying slightly in the night breeze. He couldn’t tell the Captain about the map . . . then he would have to tell him about the Beast and the Spell and the Castle and . . . Yuuri . . .

His mind raced as he tried to make words work.

“Phichit . . .” Captain Nishigori warned.

“It’s alright, Captain,” J.J. cooed, “poor fellow’s had quite a turn . . . he doesn’t know what he’s saying,”

“I DO SO!” Phichit countered indignantly, “How _could_ you . . . if I ever see your face again, I swear I’ll –”

A cool, dainty hand clamped down over his mouth; the delicate fingertips digging sharply into his cheek. A slender arm wrapped tightly around his waist, hugging him from behind.

“Shh . . . It’s alright Phichit . . . I’ve got you . . . you’re safe now”

M . . . Mari?

“My apologies, Captain . . . he’s just _so very_ upset . . . please, let me take Phichit inside. I’ll see to him . . .”

No, not Mari . . . Minako.

The Captain raised an eyebrow, “You’ll stay with him?”

“I promise he won’t leave my sight,”

Phichit squirmed, trying to wriggle his way out of Minako’s grasp; he didn’t need to be _handled_ like some sort of _child_!

“Shh . . . Phichit . . . _please_ ,”

Her voice was tighter this time, closer to his ear; a hiss. A warning.

Minako believed him; of course she believed him . . . but he was making a scene.

Making things worse.

Just like he always did.

Phichit stopped struggling, his arms dead weight at his side.

“Come along now,” Minako coaxed, slowly releasing him, “let’s wipe all that ash off your face and get you into something clean and fresh,”

It was condescending, saccharine and intolerable; but it was just a show.

Phichit played his part, allowing her to lead him into the safety of the small cottage.

 

 

The blankets were heavy and suffocating; stiff and tangled and filthy and splattered with dirt and paint and varnish and ash.

Phichit tried to pull himself free, but quickly gave up, flopping back onto the straw mattress with a dull thud.

It was gone.

All of it . . . gone.

The workshop, the dolls, the tools, the inventions, the research . . .

The mice.

He didn’t know what had become of them; surely they had run aground, back into their deep burrows after J.J. had scared them off? With the thick earth to shield them from the heat . . . and more than one way in and out of their nests . . . perhaps they’d made it to safety?

A small mercy to be sure . . . but the only mercy he could hope for now.

A soft knock interrupted his mourning.

He said nothing, his mouth sealed shut with lacquer and shame.

The bedroom door slowly creaked open.

“. . . Phichit?”

Minako.

She was still here.

Even after how he’d acted last night.

“I heard you thumping around in here. I know you’re awake,” she cooed, showing herself in.

Soon her face was above his, framed by her dark locks; she looked exhausted, but her smile was warm.

“Come on, sit up and wash your face. I’ve just finished boiling the water,”

She bustled about, pulling the covers away and dragging in one of the kitchen chairs to act as a side table; on top of it she placed a large basin of hot water, with a soft cloth and some soaps.

Phichit sat up as if pulled by puppet strings.

“Y’already made me,” he objected weakly, as Minako perched beside him on the mattress.

“Properly this time,” Minako admonished, “with soap. I have lavender, rose or jasmine,”

As Phichit stared blankly into the steaming bucket, Minako began to roll up her sleeves.

He’d decontaminated himself last night; flushing his eyes and washing the bulk of the varnish off his skin. All under Minako’s watchful eye; she had refused to even entertain the thought of letting him retire before he did so.

He had yelled at her for that.

“But – ”

“No back-talk!” Minako huffed, “You’ll feel better once you don’t reek like smoke and paint. Besides . . . it’s relaxing,”

Phichit pouted, but did as he was told, picking up the soft cloth and soaking it in the wonderfully warm water.

He pressed it to his eyes, and had to admit, it did feel a little better.

Not much, but a little.

“J.J. _knows_ . . .” he whined miserably.

“Yes, I’m aware,” Minako tutted, fussing with the ties of his apron; trying to subtly yank it off, without getting herself filthy in the process, “You said as much last night. In fact, you said a _great many_ _things_ last night,”

Phichit curled inward, pressing the cloth more tightly over his eyes.

He had been so far gone; so consumed with grief and hatred.

The instant Minako had gotten him inside, he had railed; ranting about the unjustness, the unfairness of it all . . . as if he were trying to bring the cottage down with his voice alone.

Yet . . . all the while knowing he was not blameless in the whole mess.

If he just hadn’t pushed J.J. . . If he had let sleeping dogs lie, if he hadn’t poked the bear, hadn’t left the jars of varnish open, hadn’t marked the map, hadn’t written down the castle’s name . . .

If, just for once, he could have _not_ been The Mad Tinker . . . 

If, just for once, he could have _not_ been . . . himself.

Now everything was ruined.

Everything was gone.

“But that’s not important right now,” Minako insisted, jostling Phichit roughly as she finally freed him from his apron. Clumps of dried mud cascaded to the floor as she stood to shake it out.

Phichit yanked the washcloth from his eyes, “But we have to –”

“All _you_ have to do, right now, in this moment, is finish washing your face,” Minako countered resolutely.

“But we can’t let him –”

“Face first, J.J. second,” Minako instructed; her tone kind, yet unwavering.

Phichit swallowed hard and nodded, picking up the bar of jasmine soap; knowing that this was one fight he was not going to win.

“Good,” Minako smiled, folding the apron over her arm, “I’m going to air this outside . . . it stinks like the dickens,”

And so, Phichit sat there, slowly washing and rinsing his face, his hands, even his hair; the warm water soothing his irritated skin, wrapping him up in the calming scent of jasmine.

Soon the smoke and ash and tear trails were rinsed away.

Soon, he was feeling clean and refreshed; and very nearly human again.

Soon, he couldn’t even smell the varnish anymore.

As he washed, Minako fussed about the cottage; thrusting a clean set of clothes and a comb at him, which she had most likely found in Yuuri’s room.

Phichit brushed the clumps of paint out of his hair, grimacing at the tangles as he yanked; while Minako prepared a simple breakfast of eggs and tea.

Finally, he started scrubbing his hands; washing and rinsing until the last traces of pink paint sluiced away, turning the water a horrid duty rose. 

Once he was cleansed and changed and almost back to normal, he joined Minako in the kitchen, bringing the chair back out with him.  

They sat across from one another in the cool morning sunlight, and ate their eggs in silence.

At length, they both finished, but neither moved to clean up after the meal.

Phichit frowned at his hands; he had _really_ screwed up this time.

Just when he had thought he couldn’t outdo himself . . .

How had he managed to do something _worse_ than get lost in the woods?

 _Worse_ than get himself mauled by a wolf?

 _Worse_ than stumbling into an enchanted castle?

 _Worse_ than getting caught up in magic and spells?

 _Worse_ than loosing Yuuri?

Phichit had promised his brother that he would be okay on his own . . . he had promised that he would take care of things.

Yuuri’s parting words rang mockingly though his memory;

“But . . . who will take care of _you_?”

“Thank you . . .” Phichit murmured quietly, picking at his sleeve.

Minako looked up from her plate, surprised, as if she had forgotten that Phichit was even there.

“I’m sorry,” She said, soft and sweet and genuine, so unlike the driven mother hen from earlier that morning.

“It’s fine,” Phichit shrugged; he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He had said enough last night.

Or rather, screamed enough last night.

“So,” he sighed, forcing himself to look up, “what do we do about –”

“Before you say anything else,” Minako interrupted, “just . . . please understand that I’m sorry,”

Phichit paused, his mind lagging behind Minako’s words.

He knew that that was a sentence, but somewhere between her mouth and his ears, the meaning was lost.

“I don’t . . . why would you be –”

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” Minako blurted.

Phichit cocked his head like a confused puppy, “okay . . .”

“I should never have left you alone. I should have been there. But . . . I had to think everything through first. On my own. I had to be certain,” Minako explained; her voice curt and defensive.

She was rambling; Minako never rambled.

Something cold crept up Phichit’s spine.

“So, what . . . what are you saying?”

Minako’s fingers dipped briefly into her bodice, pulling out a lacy white handkerchief; she clutched it like a lifeline.

“Minako . . . what is that? What’s wrong? What happened?”

Her eyes lifted to Phichit; large and doleful.

She snorted a cynical little laugh, “How I _wish_ I could remember . . .”

 

*****

 

“I’m sorry . . . you want to do _what_?”

“You heard me,”

“No . . . I’m going to need you to repeat that. Loudly. And slowly. Pretend there’s something wrong with my ears, if it helps,”

“You mean . . . as if they were made of _wax,_ perhaps?”

“Ha, ha. Very funny. Yuuri’s teaching you how to tell jokes, now?”

“ _Chris_ . . .”

“Either that, or you’re an impostor. Who are you, and what have you done with the _real_ Prince Nikiforov?”

Viktor rolled his eyes, momentarily pausing his excited flurry of activity to return the jibe, “remember the days when I could give my Maître D’ one _simple_ instruction and he would carry it out with nothing more than a lewd ‘Yes _Master_ ’?” he let loose a dramatic sigh to punctuate his point.

Chris nodded solemnly, settling in on Viktor’s side table, “yes, _dark times_ , indeed” he taunted, expertly turning the barb back on his companion.

Viktor rolled his eyes again and resumed buzzing about his chamber; running a gilded comb through his long silver mane as he hastily finished his breakfast of fruit.

“Going to polish your horns next?” Chris teased, “Manicure your claws?”

“Good idea!”

“Wait . . . you . . . you’re actually _serious_ about this . . .”

“ _Yes_ ,”

“You . . . think you’re ready?”

“Yes,”

“You’re _certain_?”

“Yes”

“And you want to do this . . . _tomorrow night_?”

“Yes” Viktor asserted, finally looking back to the candelabrum, “honestly, I thought you would be happy,”

“I _am_ ,” Christophe allowed, rising and hopping onto the bed, closer to Viktor, “But . . . you know, I’ve been _burned_ by you before, chérie”. His salacious, teasing tone barely masked his genuine concern.

Viktor snorted, “Well . . . you’re just going to have to trust me” he replied quietly.

Chris was silent a moment, contemplating the task set before him.

He looked up at Viktor with cautious optimism, “I’ll make the arrangements,” he agreed finally; a small smile creeping up at the corner of his mouth.

Viktor smiled back.

Chris turned and dropped off the bed, his metal base hitting the gleaming floor with a _‘clunk’_.

“It’s not _much_ time, mind you . . .” he teased, drifting towards the door.

“Chris . . .”

“But I’m sure we’ll manage, _somehow_ ,”

“ _Chris_ ,”

“You did put your _very best_ man in charge, after all,”

“Yes . . . _Masumi_ ,”

Chris stopped in his tracks, spinning back towards his Prince.

“Wha – ? Darling, you _wound_ me!”

Viktor couldn’t suppress his snide chuckles. His laughter rang though the polished chamber; Chris soon joined in with a few snickers of his own. 

“However . . . I do believe you are absolutely right,” The candelabra conceded fondly.

Viktor nodded, the frenzied comb slowing to a stop as he did.

“Thank you, Chris”.

“. . . my pleasure, Viktor”.

The air thrummed with anticipation as Viktor resumed his brushing; all giddy expectations and nervous energy.

“Oh, just out of curiosity . . . what are you going to _wear_?” Chris called back from the doorway.

“I’ll find something upstairs,” Viktor replied offhandedly, struggling to pick up a lone grape with his clumsy paws.

“You _know_ you will, or you _hope_ you will?”

“The Castle conjured _ballet slippers_ for Yuuri . . . I’m sure it can manage . . . _something_ . . . for me. Probably. Possibly,” Viktor wavered, finally securing the grape between two precariously poised claws.

“Well, if not . . . simply don’t wear anything at all!”

“ _CHRIS_!”

“Happy hunting, mon petit bichon!” The Maître D’ bade as the chamber door swung closed behind him.

Viktor couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his muzzle.

This was it.

This was . . . wow.

This was happening.

Soon the whole Castle would know, and Yuuri –

“CHRIS!” Viktor hollered suddenly, jolting as he remembered one final request.

The grape slipped from his paw, and Viktor grunted in frustration as he watched it roll away.

Wait, what was he _doing_?

He didn’t have time for _grapes_!

“Chris!” He called again, scrambling to the chamber door and flinging it open, “CHRIS! One more thing!”

“WHAT NOW? You’re _impossible_!” Chris yelled back with mock exasperation.

Or possibly real exasperation.

Viktor wasn’t sure.

It didn’t matter.

“Tell Minami I need to see him! Right away! The sooner the better!”

Viktor could _feel_ Chris’s eyes roll, all the way from the middle of the corridor.

“Yes _MASTER_ ,” the candelabra cooed lasciviously. His voice echoed through the arching halls as he laughed and set about his task once more.

With a laugh of his own, Viktor retreated back into his chamber.

This was it.

This was his moment.

This was going to be _big_.

He just hoped he was ready.

 

*****

 

The raucous tavern roared to life; filled with merchants and farmers and travellers gossiping over breakfast. It was warm and cozy and bright, the air filled with laughter and the smell of fried bacon.

Isabella sat at a long table, surrounded by people; friends and strangers and acquaintances alike. She had dragged J.J. out of his hidey-hole this morning, determined to get him in public; concerned about what ideas might come to him, if left to his own devices . . . and for her own part, desperately desiring a return to normalcy.

How had it all gone so wrong?

Things had gotten out of hand at the workshop . . . it all just happened so fast.

Yesterday, when she and J.J. had decided to go up there, the plan was to be tactful. It was supposed to be a reconnaissance mission, nothing more; they had only intended to get the whole story and offer their assistance, but then . . .

Then everything had gone sideways.

Why did the Tinker have to be so damn difficult?

Why did J.J. have to rise to his bait?

Why had they even bothered?

Now, J.J.’s mercy-forsaken temper had reared its ugly head and there was no telling what would happen next.

Isabella looked up from her breakfast, casting a surreptitious glance at her temporary ward.

J.J. brooded at the end of the table, sitting as far away from the others as he possibly could; his hand on his tankard of water, his breakfast untouched, his eyes fixed to the charred fringe of his sleeve. He hadn’t said a single word or moved a single muscle.

“Isabella . . . _Isabella_?”

She jumped, turning towards the voice; Damien Dupont, who was sitting on her left.

“Sorry, what?” She asked, coming out of her daze.

“I _said_ , is J.J. ok?” Damien snapped, “He looks pretty rough,”

“He’s fine,” Isabella lied, “just a bit tired,”

“Humph, not surprised,” Damien scoffed, loudly enough for the whole table to hear, “what a fucking mess,”

“Language,” Isabella chastised automatically; she herself wasn’t bothered by the cussing, but Damien was only seventeen. She should at least _try_ to be some sort of role model, right?

“Yea, Damien, _language_ ,” Stephan Boucher taunted from across the table, “there’ a _fuckin’ lady_ present”

Isabella rolled her eyes; Stephan was the very definition of the term ‘meathead’, but she could still out-shoot him with her eyes closed.

“Must you, Boucher?” Marcel Durand sighed, neatly cutting his bacon next to Stephan; his voice as soft and unyielding as his dark, thoughtful eyes.

“My apologies . . .” Stephan conceded, “I meant a fuckin’ lady and a fuckin’ pu –”

“KNOCK IT OFF!” J.J. snapped, finally coming to life; glaring daggers at his hunting party.

“Sooor- _ry_ , _Monsieur Gentil_ ,” Stephan spat, “didn’t mean to hurt your _feeeeeeelings_ ”

Marcel rolled his eyes, “Give him a break, Boucher, the guy’s had a rough night,”

“Should have saved yourself the trouble,” Damien opined, pushing his empty plate away to lean on the table, “I’d have done the whole town a favor and just left him in there,”

Isabella bristled, “Well, luckily J.J. has better sense than you,”

“And what did he get for his trouble? That Tinker is a _menace_. The whole town knows it,” Stephan insisted, stuffing a fistful of bacon into his mouth.

“He’s dangerous!” Damien agreed.

“Out of his mind!” Stephan continued.

“Completely irresponsible!” Louis Dubois interjected from behind the bar, as he pulled himself a large, frothy pint. It was only eight o’clock in the morning.

Theo Miller chimed in as well, “I hate to agree, but . . . honestly, he’s going to get someone hurt one of these days . . .” His voice carried from the next table over. Beside him, Paulette Baker nodded sagely, clasping his hand in hers.

“. . . maybe even himself,” Marcel begrudgingly conceded.

“You see?” Stephan proclaimed victoriously, turning to J.J., “I mean, you save the damn fool’s life, and then he has the _balls_  to try and blame the fire on _you_? _The little rat_ ,”

Damien snorted, “That’s what you get for being the good guy, eh J.J.?”

“It was an _accident_ ,” Isabella countered sternly, trying to diffuse the situation; the Hunting Party, she could handle, but now the whole Tavern was weighing in on the debate.

Maybe coming here _hadn’t_ been such a good idea after all.

“Pffft! ‘An accident’! Says who?” Stephan scoffed.

“Says _the Captain_ ,” Isabella hissed; the hairs on the back of her neck standing up.

“Captain don’t know shit,” Stephan objected, “You ask me, Nishigori’s gotten real soft ever since he had kids. He’s been too forgiving for too damn long!”

Damien slapped his hand on the table with a loud, reverberating ‘thwap’, “Yea! The Mad Tinker ought to be locked up!”

“ _Locked_ up? He ought to be _strung_ up!” Stephan cried.

“You shut your ungrateful fucking mouth!” Isabella roared, rising to her feet. The whole Tavern fell silent, “ _You weren’t there_ , you have _no idea_ what happened! You’d better – ”

“Oh, get off your high-horse _princess_ ,” Stephan snapped, “we _all_ know that _the only reason_ J.J. saved the Tinker’s sorry ass is because he’s in love with Yuuri,”

“I’ve heard enough,” J.J. declared, calmly pushing himself to his feet and depositing a copper coin on the table.

He turned to leave the Tavern.

As always, Isabella followed, scrambling to reach him through the tightly packed benches.

“Where even is Yuuri? I don’t think I saw him last night,” Theo asked quietly.

“Actually . . . I don’t think I’ve seen him in weeks” Paulette agreed; her voice hushed with genuine concern.

“He’s in The City,” Isabella barked over her shoulder, “for some dance thing”.

J.J. disappeared through the door and Isabella raced out behind him; a derisive wave of mutinous cries followed them out. Mercifully, the sanctimonious clamour of the Tavern was lost as the heavy door swung shut behind them.

“J.J.?” Isabella called, catching up to the solemn hunter, “J.J., don’t listen to them, they –”

J.J. silenced her with a large, doleful look. Isabella sighed, and the two continued on down the street, walking side by side without another word.

After a time, Isabella turned to the right, but J.J. kept plodding straight ahead.

“Hey! J.J.! Your place is this way!” Isabella hollered, confused.

“M’not going home,” J.J. replied, “I’m going to talk to the Captain”.

 

*****

 

“I told you, _back off,_ hag!”

“Ooo, sounds like I hit a nerve . . . is widdle Yuri a widdle sensitive?” Mila teased.

“This is _stupid_! You’re _stupid_!”

“Now, now, no need to get so defensive!” Sara goaded.  

“ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF!”

“Humph. Such _children_ ” Georgi sighed.

“I’m not a _child_! If anyone’s a _child_ here, it’s Mila!”

“Well, now I’m confused . . . am I a _child_ or a _hag_? I can’t possibly be _both_ at once!” Mila snickered.

“She has a point” Sara agreed.

Yuuri gently tugged his leather shoe on; distractedly chomping a piece of toast between his teeth, holding it there as he tied his laces. He hummed idly to himself as his regular breakfast time companions threw his chamber into chaos, as per usual.

It was the great Yuuri/Yuri debate again; today’s topic: the validity of using nicknames to more easily tell the two apart.

Yuuri had already chimed in _once_ this time around; reasserting the subtle difference in their names for what felt like the millionth time since he had started living at the castle.

But, as expected, the raucous teacup had shouted over him, so Yuuri had instead contented himself with his toast and his humming.

“I was the _first_ Yuri in this castle and I am _NOT_ going to go by that stupid nickname!”

“Aww, but it’s so cute, _Yurio_!” Sara chirped.

“ _Stop calling me that_! If anyone’s getting a stupid nickname it’s going to be the _other_ Yuuri!”

“Oh, please!” Georgi moaned.

“ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF!”

Yuuri just hummed away, finishing the toast and straightening his waistcoat as he stood.

Then, something glinting on the edge of his glasses distracted him; a smudge maybe?

Yuuri slid his glasses off, inspecting them for smears and scratches. He bunched the cuff of his billowing sleeve and wiped at the lenses with small, determined strokes.

Slowly, he noticed the clamour had died down around him; the only sound remaining was the melody he was humming ever so softly to himself.

Yuuri looked back up at his companions and quickly slid his glasses on, only to be greeted by smug, Cheshire grins.

“What?” Yuuri blurted.

“ _Someone’s_ in a good mood today,” Mila cooed.

“Sure . . . I guess?” Yuuri agreed uncertainly.

“I’d say he’s in a _very_ good mood,” Sara wheedled.

“I wonder why that might be . . .” Mila prodded

“I . . . don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yuuri lied, his cheeks heating up.

“Of course . . .” Georgi interjected, “So . . . the _humming_ , the _smiling_ , the _mooning_ _about_ . . . that wasn’t inspired by . . . _anything in particular_?”

“Uhh . . .” Yuuri stalled.

So much for Georgi being above ‘childish’ teasing; the traitor!

“Maybe a certain _someone_?” Mila prompted

Sara grinned, “A _certain someone_ named Vi–”

“Ugh, if you people are going to get all _mushy_ , I’m out of here!” Yuri declared, making no move to leave whatsoever.

“What? No! I – I never said anything like that!” Yuuri squeaked.

Though he relished his _private_ affections, Yuuri was absolutely not prepared to make his feelings common knowledge. Not _yet_ , anyway.

Just because things had been going well with Viktor didn’t mean . . . it wasn’t that _simple_ and . . . and besides, it would only get his hopes up again and that wasn’t . . . he couldn’t . . .

And anyway, all the _technicalities_ and _quibbles_ of having such _complicated_ feelings for such a _complicated_ individual were not things he desired to dwell on or explain. 

Not _publically_ , anyway.

And once Mila and Sara knew, the whole castle would know, and He and Viktor would never get another second of privacy!

Not that he was _trying_ to be alone with Viktor.

Not that he _wasn’t_ trying to be alone with Viktor.

Not that he was trying not to look like he was trying to be alone with Viktor.

Because he was. But not like _that_.

Well, yes, like _that_. But not _now_.

Well, yes, _now_. Ideally _now_. But not . . . with things as they were?

Or something like that?

“Don’t play coy Yuuri,” Mila chided suddenly.

“Yes, you mustn’t be ashamed!” Georgi cried dramatically, “For _love_ is the most glorious – ”

“Pfft. _You’re_ the one that has no shame, Georgi,” Yuri scoffed.

“Come on, talk to us Yuuri!” Sara begged, “Please, please, please? We all heard that you and Viktor – ”

“ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF!”

“You heard _what_? That me and Viktor . . . _what_?” Yuuri babbled as the floor fell out from under him.

“Well . . . _Chris_ said he saw the two of you . . . um . . . ‘disappear together’ . . . last night,” Mila admitted.

“Into the _Master’s CHAMBER_!” Sara squealed.

“Sara!” Mila hissed.

“What?” Sara protested, “It’s _exciting_! I’m . . . _happy for them_ , that’s all . . .”

Yuuri opened his mouth to respond, but it took a couple seconds before any actual _words_ started to form, “We _didn’t_ . . . we _weren’t_ . . . doing . . . _that_ ,” he objected fruitlessly; his face turning a worrying shade of scarlet.

“Ugh, now I’m ACTUALLY leaving. Stop being gross!” Yuri snapped, hopping away with a series of cute little ‘clinks’.

“ _He was just showing me the rose_!”

The bedchamber went silent once again.

Yuuri’s eyes flickered from Mila and Sara’s twin faces of shock to Georgi’s uncertain gaze, to Yuri’s sick expression.

Even Makkachin, who didn’t even _really_ have a _face_ , looked stunned.

“He just . . . we talked. It was good,” Yuuri explained awkwardly.

Georgi cleared his throat, “So . . . he told you . . .?”

“Everything,” Yuuri confirmed defiantly, “I know _everything_ ,”

“Then . . . you know . . . how to break the spell?”

All eyes turned to the other Yuri, who had just miraculously uttered an entire sentence without a single trace of sarcasm or derision.

“Well . . . yes,” Yuuri hedged, as the teacup and other enchanted accessories looked to him with something resembling awe . . . or possibly, fear?

“I mean, mostly,” Yuuri clarified, beginning to ramble, “Kindof. Yes. In essence,”

“ _In essence_? What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Yuri barked, stamping down with another little ‘clink’.

“I know the . . . _important_ things,” Yuuri conceded, “But . . .”

“ _BUT WHAT_?” the teacup roared.

Yuuri bristled, “There were _some_ things that Viktor _didn’t want to share_ , alright? And I didn’t push it because I _respect his privacy_ ,”

The staff exchanged nervous glances; Makkachin let out a whine.

Something slimy slithered through Yuuri, suddenly worried that he had somehow caused offense.

His chest tightened, and he started to ramble in earnest, “It’s alright . . . I promise! I know all about _what_ happened, and _how_ , and _why_ . . . _and_ I know that in order to break the spell, Viktor has to ‘overcome a personal challenge’ of some kind. The only thing he didn’t tell me was the _specific_ challenge he’s facing. Because . . . the thing that’s going to break the spell . . . whatever it happens to be . . . it has to be _real_. Viktor just . . . doesn’t want to ruin his chances by . . . accidentally _forcing_ it? And it’s _frustrating_ not knowing . . . but _the rose is_ _thawing_ . . . so that must mean Viktor is doing _something_ right. He’ll figure out how to break the spell. We just . . . need to trust him . . .”

The assembly was silent, mulling over Yuuri’s words; his heart pounded loudly against his ribs.

After a long minute, Georgi spoke up, “And . . . do you trust him?” the wardrobe asked carefully.

Yuuri blinked, slightly taken aback, “What? Of course I do,” he replied automatically.

Georgi scrutinized Yuuri for a moment more, “Well then . . . so do I” he opined, infinitely satisfied with whatever conclusions he had drawn.

Sara hummed thoughtfully, “I suppose it is sort of . . . _sweet_ . . . when you think about it,” she cooed, “You know . . . how Viktor wants _it_ to be _real_ ,”

Mila nodded, dumbfounded, “that’s definitely not what I would have expected from him,” she mumbled.

“Whatever. I mean, _maybe_ Viktor is . . . _slightly_ less annoying than he used to be. But I’ll believe it when I see it,” Yuri huffed, rolling his eyes, “that guy is _hopeless_ ”

Yuuri grinned, trying to lighten the mood, “Oh, come on, _Yurio_ ,” he teased, “Viktor isn’t _that_ hopeless,”

_“BA BA-DA BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”_

Yuuri jumped out of his skin as a horn blared on the other side of his chamber door.

“What in the _world_ – ” he hissed, shuffling over to the towering white entryway, carefully snaking his way through his companions, so as not to accidentally step on any of them.

The door swung open smoothly with a soft ‘click’ of the latch.

“ _Minami_? Ah, good morning! It’s nice to see –”

The little horn interrupted before Yuuri could finish his greeting.

“Master Katsuki Yuuri,” The herald began, poised and polished and rehearsed, “You are cordially invited to His Highness’ Winter Celebration Ball. Master Viktor Nikiforov requests the pleasure of your company tomorrow eve in the Grand Ballroom at 8 o’clock,”

With that, Minami’s little red and gold flag flicked upward, quickly depositing a sturdy card in Yuuri’s unsuspecting hand.

A few scandalized voices echoed though the chamber behind him; gasps and exclamations of delight ringing out somewhere far away.

“A . . . _what_? Wait – ”

“Should you require, further details have been enclosed in your invitation” Minami replied stiffly.

Yuuri’s eyes flicked down to the pale card-stock in his hand; gold calligraphy looped and swirled across the page, announcing, in no uncertain terms, that Viktor was indeed throwing a massive Ball the following night.

A Ball . . . an actual, real-live, honest-to-goodness _Ball_.

 _Tomorrow_ night!

Yuuri was gobsmacked, “Ah . . . thank . . . you . . ?” he responded tentatively, both overjoyed at the prospect of attending a ball, and completely unaware what type of etiquette was required of him in this situation.

There was also a small part of him that secretly wondered whether or not he should be ‘interested’ in the origins of Viktor’s rather abrupt and monumental flight of fancy.

Yuuri smiled; Viktor never ceased to surprise him.

“Most . . . uh . . . _obliged_ , Master Katsuki!” Minami replied, with slightly less confidence this time; like an actor trying to remember a line, “We . . . uh . . . we . . . eagerly await your response!”

Minami hesitated a moment more, before his stoic facade broke completely. The little horn swivelled sharply to the right, calling down the corridor, “How was that? I didn’t miss anything, did I?”

Perplexed, Yuuri leaned out into the hall, following the path of Mianami’s eyes to discover who it was that the little horn was hollering at.

And there in the gilded splendour of the corridor, some distance away so as not to be seen, stood a very sheepish and flustered Viktor.

“Ahhh . . .” Viktor stalled as he caught Yuuri’s eye.

Clearly he had not expected to be discovered.

Viktor cleared his throat, “Yes. Very good, Minami. That will be all, thank you,” he said softly, his eyes never once leaving Yuuri’s.

“Ah! _Really_? You _mean it_?” Minami beamed, “just wait ‘till the guys hear about _this_!” With a squeal of delight, Minami raced off down the hall.

Yuuri and Viktor both stood frozen; gazing at one another a moment more before Yuuri finally broke the silence,

“. . . hi . . .”

“. . . hi,” Viktor returned with a shy smile.

He drifted closer to Yuuri, looking every inch the Master of a Castle; as dashing as Yuuri had ever seen him. Viktor’s black breeches had been washed and pressed; so had his billowing white shirt. Across his shoulders hung a velvet cape; deep purple with golden clasps and links. His quicksilver mane looked as though it had been brushed a thousand times, his long molten tresses endlessly sleek and shiny as they cascaded down to the middle of his back. His claws had been buffed, his fangs looked whiter, and his smile could sweeten even the most bitter black tea. His alluring azure eyes were bright and excited as always; and . . . had his horns been . . . _polished_?

They gleamed as though they had been.

“You’re . . . throwing a ball?” Yuuri wheedled.

“Tomorrow night,” Viktor confirmed. Yuuri could feel the excitement radiating off of him, breaking through his once-callous countenance.

“What’s the occasion?” Yuuri asked; his words came out smooth and coy, without having intended them to be.

“The . . . occasion?” Viktor wavered.

“It says, ‘Winter Celebration’,” Yuuri explained kindly, holding up his invitation, “But . . . it’s not _actually_ winter right now . . . you know that, right?”

“Hmm . . . _possibly_ ,” Viktor allowed, his grin an impossible mix of sweet and smug.

“So then . . . what are we celebrating?” Yuuri coaxed; something wonderfully frivolous filling his chest and spurring him on, despite feeling slightly self-conscious.

 Viktor pondered a moment, looking up and away, as if he would find inspiration written in the air before him.

“. . . A great many things,” he answered finally, once again meeting Yuuri’s eyes.

Yuuri smiled, “Well . . . it sounds wonderful,”

“I’m glad you think so,” Viktor blurted, his tone sobering ever so slightly, “there . . . there was something I was meaning to . . . ask you . . . actually . . . I was going to give you some time, but Minami -”

“Yes?” Yuuri interrupted, immediately flushing a very bright pink at his own embarrassing eagerness.

“Oh. Well . . . I was wondering . . .” Viktor murmured, before taking a deep breath and standing up straight, “. . . Katsuki Yuuri, will you allow me the honor of escorting you to the Winter Celebration Ball, tomorrow evening?”

Yuuri was beaming before he could stop himself.

“Ah . . . I guess so. Sure,”

So much for being _smooth_ . . .

“I mean _yes_ ,” Yuuri rambled, so wrapped up in the moment he couldn’t think straight, “Yes, I would like that.”

“Oh . . . um . . . very well then,” Viktor stammered, trying to remain formal and composed, and failing miserably, “Yes. Excellent. I’m pleased to hear it. _Very_ pleased to hear it. I look forward to . . . our evening . . . together . . . tomorrow . . .”

Yuuri felt like an awkward schoolboy all over again. It was throwing him off, having this strange giddy feeling fluttering around inside his ribs.

“Me too,” he confessed, shyly looking up at Viktor through his lashes.

“It is _formal_ attire,” Viktor pressed on as calmly as he was able, “I’m certain Georgi has any number of suitable pieces . . . and I’m willing to wager that Mila and Sara would both be more than happy to supply you with any perfumes or emulsions you might desire to indulge in . . .”

Yuuri smiled and very nearly rolled his eyes; typical Viktor.

“I’m afraid I’ll be rather . . . preoccupied with the preparations . . . with so much to plan in such a short time. Regrettably, I may not see you until . . . I see you . . . tomorrow,” Viktor nervously slowed to a stop.

“Of course,” Yuuri reassured warmly, “I understand,”

Viktor nodded; his countenance remained poised, but behind those arctic eyes, Yuuri could tell that his mind was going a thousand leagues a minute.

“Alright then, if that’s all, I’ll –”

“Hey, Viktor . . .”

“. . . yes, Yuuri?”

“There . . . there’s going to be dancing, right?”

Viktor smiled, “Of course, Solnyshko! What’s a ball without dancing?”

“Then . . .” Yuuri hedged, tentatively putting his hopes into words, “Then, being my escort . . . means you’ll be my dance partner too?”

Viktor’s expression went soft and dreamy at the edges as he looked into Yuuri’s pleading eyes.

“From the opening branle, to the very last danse a deux,” he promised.

Yuuri choked up a little and simply nodded in response, not trusting himself to speak.

Viktor looked away politely, giving Yuuri a chance to collect himself. After a moment he turned back, smiling softly, “So . . . tomorrow night?” he reiterated hopefully.

“Tomorrow night,” Yuuri agreed with an excited little nod.

“Until then, lyubov moya” Viktor bade softly, forcing himself to at last turn back down the hall.

Yuuri watched his retreating form in a daze, head swimming and heart singing and hopes as high as they’d ever been.

Once he could finally breathe again, he floated back into his chamber feeling lighter than air.

Until he came face to face with a half-dozen enchanted objects, all giving him the same scrutinizing look; he had completely forgotten they were there.

“I . . .” Yuuri began weakly, “I . . . um . . . ”

Luckily, Georgi came to his rescue.

“At last! A chance to debut my _inspired_ creations!” The wardrobe interjected, mercifully changing the subject, “let’s talk _colour_! Wait, no! I simply must _see_ you in them first! Oh, I have so _many_! I don’t know how we’ll _ever_ decide!”

Mila and Sara joined in the clamour as Georgi pulled out dozens of pieces; from earthy, tailored ditto suits to sleek satin waistcoats to shimmering velvet frock coats, to bejewelled brocade justacorps’, which seemed to Yuuri more costume than clothing.

A mountain of fine shoes and fabrics and feathered hats reigned down around him as the trio cooed over the stunning outfits. Makkachin showed her appreciation for the high-end fashions in her own doggie way, rolling atop a plush pile of wayward wool coats.

“Pfft. Good luck, Katsudon,” Yuri scoffed, quickly slinking out of the chamber before he too was caught in the clothing crossfire.

But Yuuri couldn’t focus on the beautiful pieces or the glittering ball, or even the earth shattering vow which Viktor had just made.

Because it was all happening so fast . . . wondrously overwhelming and incredibly confusing all at once . . . and he didn’t know what any of it actually meant . . . if it even meant anything at all.

It just seemed too good to be true.

“Hey . . . Mila? Georgi?” Yuuri murmured, absently running his fingers across a lavish waistcoat of midnight-blue satin, “What does . . . ‘lyubov moya’ mean?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [French] Chérie = Darling (Colloquial)
> 
> [French] Mon petit bichon = My little dog/My Little Maltese Dog/My Pet (Colloquial)
> 
> [French] Monsieur Gentil = Literally “Mr. Nice” – colloquially, “Mr. Nice Guy” or “Mr. Sensitive” – the word “gentil” is kindof a catch-all term for nice/kind/friendly/gentle/good/pretty/amiable etc. (More literally, “Mr. Sensitive” might translate to something like “Monsieur Délicat” which specifically means sensitive/fussy/delicate etc.)
> 
> [Russian] Solnyshko = Солнышко = My Sunshine/Little Sun (Term of Endearment)
> 
> [Russian] Lyubov Moya = любовь моя = My Love


	9. The Invitation, The Atlas & The Warrant: Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up in the afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New year y'all! Part 2 of "The Invitation, The Atlas & The Warrant" is finally here! 
> 
> Hoo-boy! Get ready for a feels trip. 
> 
> Hopefully the final part will be up soon, and then we can get to the main event . . . the WINTER CELEBRATION BALL!!! :D
> 
> Thank you guys SO MUCH for your support - I've gotten a couple super sweet comments about Yuuri's outfits in this Chapter so I did a couple quick little doodles :D Here's the link to the pic on my Tumblr!
> 
> https://silverscribblesuniverse.tumblr.com/image/169168169933
> 
> Find more on Tumblr @silverscribblesuniverse
> 
> TECHNICAL NOTES:
> 
> As always, if you see anything weird in my translations, let me know and I'll fix it! FIND TRANSLATIONS IN THE 'END NOTES'  
> **I received some notes about a translation error in a previous chapter - I'm just working to fix that now :)
> 
>  
> 
> ***CONTENT WARNINGS
> 
> LANGUAGE AND/OR VIOLENCE - THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS FREQUENT STRONG LANGUAGE
> 
> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MENTIONS OF SEX AND SEXUAL INNUENDO.
> 
> ***A NOTE ABOUT NON-CON/DUB-CON:
> 
> As previously noted - this work involves themes regarding unwanted romantic/sexual advances and the rejection of personal autonomy. These themes can be a sensitive subject for many, so please proceed with caution.

The Ballroom erupted into a glittering sea of chaos.

Masumi held his breath as he plunged headlong into the pandemonium, dodging excitable staff and animated cleaning supplies as he went. News of the Ball had spread quickly; and it seemed that every mop, brush, and broom had come to life in order to prepare. The self-aware supplies, like the enchanted staff they served, were all eagerly working double-time to bring their Master’s vision to life.

“Decor, floors, windows, menu . . .” Masumi muttered to himself, reviewing his mental check-list of everything that needed to be done in the next 24 hours. He stopped abruptly, scanning the pageantry of the preparations for any signs of trouble.

A low, irritated growl escaped his throat; _what was it he’d come in here for again_?

_‘CLANG, TWANG, SCREEEE, SNAP’!_

Oh right; the band.

‘ _Check on band, confirm repertoire for tomorrow night_ ’; task number 21 on the mental check-list.

“Careful!” Masumi hollered, weaving his way over to the dais where the musicians were currently tuning themselves.

“Sorry,” Leo apologized sheepishly, “It’s been a while . . . the strings are a bit _tight_ , if you know what I mean. And, uh, I don't want to _alarm_ anyone, but I think my wrestplank might be _a little bit warped_ and it _sort of_  feels like a couple of my plectrums may be loose, and I can't really say for certain, but I - ”

“It’s alright,” Masumi soothed, “just tell me what you nee–”

“Guang-Hong, play your high ‘G’ again,” Seung-Gil instructed, talking over Masumi, “It sounds off”.

“Wait, ‘G’? I thought we were playing in Concert C!” the viola wailed.

Lilia groaned, "He means the _note_ , Guang-Hong, not the _key_ ,"

"Let's just start over," Leo suggested, forgetting Masumi altogether, "Alright, everyone tune to my middle 'C' -"

" _Your_ middle 'C'? You're an _entire_ semi-tone off!"

"Hey, go easy on the guy; he's got wood-rot!"

"I _do not_! Ok, _there_ , how's thi-?"

' _TWANG-SNAP_ '.

". . . uh oh".

Masumi took a deep breath, swivelling sharply away from the band.

This could be Lilia’s problem.

For now.

He silently added, ‘ _ensure band is practiced, prepared and REPAIRED_ ’, to the checklist.

“MASUMI!”

The shout nearly made his feathers fly.

“AH! Yes?” Masumi yelped, coming face-to-face with a very put-out Yuri Plisetsky.

“Grandpa says the wine cellar is locked,”

“It shouldn’t be”

“Well, it is”

“It _shouldn’t_ be”

“Thanks _genius_ , but assuming it _is_ locked and I’m not just wasting my time here, _how would we get inside_?”

Masumi ruffled his feathers, “I do believe my _darling beau_ was going to oversee those particular preparations,” he answered through gritted teeth.

“So, where _is_ wax-face?” Yuri growled.

Masumi took another deep breath, “I’m _certain_ I _don’t know_ ” he replied curtly; the tinniest tinge of annoyance worming its way into his voice.

Truth be told, he hadn’t seen Chris all day; at least, not since earlier this morning, when his paramour had greeted him with nothing more than a quick ‘kiss’ and an even quicker, “ohbythewayViktorwantstothrowaballtomorroweveningandyou’reinchargegottagobye!”

“Well, when I find him, I’m kicking his ass,” The teacup huffed, storming away to scour the ballroom for the missing Maître D’.

Normally, Masumi would have objected; perhaps even issued a heartfelt plea on his lover’s behalf. This afternoon however, he just hoped Yuri would kick Chris’ lazy ass hard enough for both of them.

“Masumi,” a measured voice greeted from behind.

Oh, thank _Mercy_.

“Yes, Otabek?” Masumi replied brightly; surely the calm, reliable letter opener had brought him some _good_ news?

“The brooms have finished the main floor, and the mops are ready to proceed,” the Chamberlain reported, stoic and composed as always.

Masumi heaved a sigh of relief, “ _thank you_ , Otabek, I’m –”

“However, the rags seem to have confused the metal polish with the shoe polish. A great many surfaces are now black and slippery. I advise caution near the grand staircase”

“How –” Masumi began, before immediately being interrupted again.

“Masumi!”

Mercy’s sake, what _now_?

One of the serving staff, currently in the form of a salt shaker, was desperately vying for his attention.

“Masumi! The utensils are fighting again! Which china do we use? The gold or the silver?”

Suddenly, a spatula appeared on his left, “Masumi! Quick question, how does one extinguish a grease fire, again? No reason, haha, just curious –”

_‘CLANG, TWANG, SCREEEE, SNAP’!_

 “Hey, Masumi! Did you hear how good my heralding went this morning? It was so official! Master Viktor is so excited!”

 “MASUMI, _where the hell is Chris_? Grandpa has to –”

_‘BANG! FLOOMPH!’_

_‘THUD! THUD! THUD!’_

_‘CRASH!_ ’

Suddenly, Makkachin barrelled into the ballroom and began running around the balcony; precariously close to the grand staircase. The poor dog-stool had _apparently_ gotten herself tangled up in a large, cranberry-coloured coat and was now skittering blindly through the castle. Masumi cringed as she slipped on a patch of errant shoe polish and tumbled down the steps; landing with a loud 'crash' at the bottom of the staircase.

The dog-stool scrambled to her feet, quickly shaking off the fall, and began racing through the freshly swept ballroom, leaving little trails of shoe polish behind her as she went.

“ _ARF, ARF, ARF, ARF_!”

Sara and Mila appeared only seconds later, in hot pursuit of the wild dog-stool.

“ _Makka, no_!”

“ _Bad girl, come back here_!”

“ _ARF, ARF, ARF, ARF, ARF_!”

_‘CLANG, TWANG, SCREEEE, SNAP’!_

Masumi reached his breaking point.

“MAKKACHIN . . . _SIT_!”

Recognizing the tone of one _very unhappy_ head butler, the clumsy pooch tried to obey at once; unfortunately, she didn’t actually  _stop running_ before she tried to sit, and the coat caught beneath her, sending her sliding across the floor. She eventually came to a stop by smashing into a gaggle of enchanted brooms, which all toppled over with an ear-splitting clatter.

“ _STAY_!” Masumi commanded; his voice all ice, frighteningly reminiscent of his Prince.

Makkachin whined repentantly, but didn’t move an inch; the coat still tangled around her.

The ballroom fell silent. 

Masumi saw his chance and took it; rapidly firing off instructions to each of the fretting petitioners, “Otabek, take all the tins of shoe polish and lock them in the main foyer closet, have the rags re-polish everything and direct everyone else away from the grand staircase. You! Tell the utensils we’ll use the gold china for the dinner buffet and the silver for the midnight dessert table. And _YOU_! What the _hell_ are you still doing here? Go smother that grease fire _now_ , and _don’t even think about_ throwing any water on it! Minami, we’re all very proud of you, and yes, it is very exciting. Now _please_ , go help Leo get tuned before he seriously hurts himself! Mila, Sara, if you would _kindly_ see to poor Makkachin and _keep her out of the ballroom_ , I would be _much_ obliged. Mops, listen up! You'll need to spot-clean the shoe polish Makka left behind before you can start your main sweep. And _YURI_ –”

Masumi snapped to face the glowering kitchen-boy, grasping at the final threads of his patience, “I will _personally_ come down and unlock the wine cellar in _five minutes_ , if that would be _agreeable_ to you?”

Yuri said nothing, just rolled his eyes and hopped away as the other staff began to dissipate.

Masumi took _yet another_ deep breath.

Alright . . . now, what was it he'd been doing _before_ he was so rudely –?

“Masumi! There you are, mein herzli!”

His blood boiled again.

“ _Christophe Giacometti_ ,” Masumi seethed, turning to face his absentee partner, “ _Wo zum Hölle warst du_?”

Chris merely bat his eyes in response, “Why? Have you been _looking for me_ , Müsli?” he teased.

“Oh, don’t you blink those big, innocent calf-eyes at me, Christophe Giacometti! I am _furious_ with you right now!” Masumi hissed, sweeping past Chris in his haste to get _somewhere_ ; wherever it was he'd been going a minute ago . . . which had been  _important_ , he was certain.

“Wha –? What did _I_ do?” Chris gaped, trailing behind Masumi; still feigning naiveté.

Masumi bristled again but refused to answer, knowing he was precariously close to saying something that he would regret.

But Chris was persistent, as always, and gently pulled him aside with a golden arm around his waist.

Or, where Masumi’s waist _would_ have been, if he were _human_ , and not a _mercy-forsaken feather duster_.

Masumi growled; didn’t Chris understand how _important_ this was? Did he even _care_ what was at stake? Everything had to be _perfect_. Everything had to be –

Ugh! He didn’t have time for this, damn it! Why couldn’t Chris just let him _storm off_ in peace?

“. . . Müsli?” Chris wheedled, trying to meet his lover’s furious face with an apologetic pout.

Masumi only glared in response; refusing to give in.

 _No way_ was he going to let Chris charm himself out of this one.

No matter _how much_ he fluttered those big hazel eyes.

But, unfortunately for Masumi, Chris was just as stubborn as he was; and he knew _all_ the feather duster’s weaknesses.

“Schäri?” Chris murmured, plying him with puppy-dog eyes and pet names, “Mein herzli? Mein schätzli? Mein ängeli? Mein sternli? Hasibärli? Schnüggerli . . ?”

Masumi tried to resist - tried to stay strong under the onslaught of sweetness - but his lover was pulling out all the stops. He couldn’t say he was surprised; Chris seemed to know _exactly_ how much trouble he was in, judging by the desperation in his voice and the hesitation in his touch.

Masumi’s scowl melted into a frown as he finally allowed Chris to pull him close.

Ugh, damn those big, beautiful hazel eyes.

“I’m still mad at you,” Masumi huffed, surrendering to the embrace.

Chris held him tight and laughed, “Well, it’s a step down from furious . . . so I’ll take it,”

Masumi rolled his eyes; after a moment he pulled away, straightening up as best he could.

“Viktor put _you_ in charge, Müsli," Chris apologized, releasing his paramour, "I was just . . . trying to stay out of your way,” 

Masumi sighed, “You could have _at least_ unlocked the wine cellar like you promised” he chided.

Chris went rigid, “Oh . . . _un_ lock the wine cellar . . .”

Masumi’s eyes went wide, “Chris . . . you _didn’t_ ,” he groaned.

“Haha . . . oops?” Chris shrugged.

Masumi snorted, “Unbelievable. Christophe Giacometti, you are absolutely _hopeless_ ,”

“I _know_ . . . what _ever_ will you do with me?” Chris returned seductively, grinning like the cat that got the cream.

Masumi gracefully arched one dark eyebrow, still not quite in the mood for Chris’ games, “Well _first_ , I’m going to go _unlock_ the wine cellar, so you don’t get your ‘hopeless’ ass kicked by a tea-cup”.

“ _Or_ ,” Chris suggested, “You could sneak off with me instead,”

The candelabrum winked and Masumi’s heart fluttered.

Mercy, he really _should_ be past this by now; this desperate, cloying, weak-in-the-knees, love-struck reaction he had any time Chris so much as glanced in his direction.

But, regardless of how much Masumi’s traitorous heart wanted to give in, he _really_ couldn’t afford any distractions. Not now. Not today.

“I would Chris, but there’s still so much to –”

“Re-polish the fixtures, organize the china, put out the grease fire, make sure the band is tuned, keep Makka out of the way, wipe up the shoe polish and unlock the wine cellar . . . have I missed anything, Müsli?” Chris' smirk was infuriating.

Masumi sighed, “How is it you can remember all that, yet still manage to _lock_ a door that’s meant to be _unlocked_?”

“Hm. Perhaps I’m not so _hopeless_ after all,” Chris rebutted victoriously.

“Fine, then . . . inconsistent,” Masumi conceded fondly.

“In everything except my love for you,” Chris pledged with a dashing smile.

Masumi felt the heat rise to his face, thoroughly ashamed of how easily the Maître D’ could win him over with flattery.

“ _And_ ,” the candelabrum purred, “If I’m not mistaken, all of those tasks are currently being seen to –”

“Well, except for –”

“ _Most_ of those tasks are currently being seen to,” Chris continued without missing a beat, “and I will _happily_ suffer Yuri’s dainty porcelain wrath if it means my poor, sweet, overworked Müsli will consent to a brief _romantic_ interlude,”

Masumi’s willpower crumbled; Chris really _was_ a terrible influence.

One would think he’d be immune to the man's charms by now; the sweet words, the sultry glances, the saccharine pet names . . . but even after all this time, Chris still had Masumi wrapped around his little finger - and worst of all, he _knew_ it; the bastard.

“ _Five minutes_ ,” Masumi allowed, the warning clear in his voice.

Chris grinned, “That’s all I need. Follow me, mein herzli . . . there’s something I want to show you”

He turned with another wink, and lead them through the ballroom, towards the massive glass doors and white stone veranda.

They wove quickly through the din, past swirling mops and twirling rags and hysterical staff, until finally they emerged into the warm afternoon sunlight.

The Veranda was large and stately, with thick stone rails and a tremendous view of the gardens. On either side, large shallow steps curved down towards a short promenade with a grand fountain in the center. Just beyond that, to the north, one could see right into the hedge maze, which stretched all the way out into the horizon.  

But Masumi was not admiring the view or revelling in the noon-day sun; his eyes were transfixed on the empty balcony and the strange magics currently at work there.  

Little-by-little and ever-so-slowly, flakes of fluffy snow were swirling up into the air; as if taken by the wind. Glittering white confetti rose up in droves, surrounding Chris and Masumi where they stood, shining iridescently in the sunlight; like a snow globe frozen in time.

“Look,” Chris whispered, wrapping his arms around his beloved; hugging him from behind. Masumi followed his eyes, in awe of the enchantments surrounding them.

The snowflakes were coalescing, settling across the castle walls, the veranda, the steps, the banisters; over the rails and bricks they wound themselves, tracing intricate patterns across every surface. Slowly, flakes turned to frost, and a brilliant display of breathtaking ice sculptures began to build themselves up from nothing. 

“Wow . . .” Masumi sighed, “This is . . . _wow_ ,”

“Mmm,” Chris agreed, humming into Masumi’s dark locks as he nuzzled closer, “aren’t you glad I stole you away?”

“No, it’s not that . . . I mean, yes. Of course. It’s beautiful, Chris. Thank you,” Masumi stammered, disentangling himself in order to face his beloved, “I just meant . . . all of this. Everything. It feels like . . . like . . . ah, never mind. Don’t listen to me, I don’t know what I’m saying,”

Frustrated with himself, Masumi shook his head and turned away; mercy, he couldn’t have sounded stupider if he’d _tried_.

He knew it shouldn’t matter, not with just the two of them here; but Chris always seemed to find a way to sweep him off his feet, and just once, Masumi wished he could return the favor. Despite some of Chris' more _frustrating_ traits, Masumi was still hopelessly in love with the man; and truth be told, he always had been. Over the years, that love had helped him become a bit more forthright with his own affections, but for all his progress, he remained a quiet, heavy-handed perfectionist at heart; one with a special talent for ruining beautiful moments like this.

Masumi fretted; not for the first time, he wondered what Chris possibly saw in him.

But, to his relief, his paramour just reached out and tugged him gently back into his arms; resuming their previous position like nothing had happened.

“I know. I feel it too,” Chris whispered, holding on tight; like he never wanted to let go.

“I just . . . I can hardly believe it’s _actually happening_ ,” Masumi confessed, “I always said that 'if it was going to happen, then it was going to happen, and if it wasn't, then it wasn't', but now it really is and I can’t . . . I can’t think straight. I can’t focus, I –”

“Because we never dared to get our hopes up before,” Chris soothed, “it’s alright, Müsli . . . you’re allowed to be nervous,”

“I’m not nervous,” Masumi objected, “I’m just . . . excited”.

“No . . . I believe you’re nervous, Mein Herzli,”

“I’m _not_ ,”

“You are. You’re making your ‘nervous face’,”

“I don’t have a ‘nervous face’,”

“Of course you do, you’re making it right now,”

“Is that so?”

“It is, as a matter of fact. I’ve been in love with you my _entire life_ , schäri. I know all your faces –”

“You were 23 when we met, Chris,”

“So? That doesn’t mean that I haven’t been in love with you my _entire life_!”

“That’s exactly what it means!”

“My _entire life_ , Musli!”

“We used to _hate_ each other, remember?”

“Ja . . . because we were _hopelessly in love_ and just didn’t know it,”

“We tried to get each other _fired_ ,”

“Out of _love_ ,”

“You once told Viktor that I was the treacherous bastard son of a rabid weasel and the Infernal Prince of Darkness himself,”

“Lies! Slander and lies! I would never say such things about my schnüggerli!”

“I was there, Chris! I was standing right next to you when you said it!”

“You must be mistaken, schäri, that doesn’t sound like me at all,”

Masumi laughed, “ _Really_? Not _at all_?”

“No. Not in the slightest,” Chris teased, “I’ll have you know that I’ve always been a fine, upstanding citizen,”

Masumi smiled, “. . . just like you’ve always been in love with me?” he ventured hesitantly.

“And always will be,” Chris promised.

They stood together on the veranda in silence, watching as the magic crafted the last of its frozen decor.

The enchanted pieces glittered sapphire in the sunlight. A large bench with swirling designs lounged by the rail, looking comfortable despite the arctic material; vines of snow-sculpted ivy curled along the banisters like ribbons and glassy candle-holders bloomed across the castle wall like shelf mushrooms. All around the veranda, creeping icicles had woven themselves into crystalline rose bushes, their snowy buds blooming before the lovers' very eyes.

“Chris?” Masumi began, breath catching in the wintry air, “I’m sorry I snapped at you,”

“Already forgiven, mein herzli,” Chris insisted, “and, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for . . . not being there,”

“It’s alright,” Masumi sighed, “I know how I can be sometimes,”

“Assertive and commanding and sexy?”

Masumi snorted, “I was going to say bossy and imperious and frigid, but sure,”

“Now, now, don’t spread such terrible lies about my Müsli,” Chris quipped, “You’re not _any_ of those things. You just get a little . . . _touchy_ when you’re nervous.”

Masumi swallowed hard, “It’s that obvious?”

“Only to me. Because I’ve been in love with you my _entire life_ , and I can spot your ‘nervous face’ a hundred leagues away,” Chris answered playfully.

Masumi huffed a little laugh, “I’m sorry. I suppose I am . . . nervous. A bit,”

“Tell me?” Chris offered, in one of his rare moments of sincerity.

“It’s just . . .” Masumi shifted, twisting out of Chris’ embrace to see him better, “if all goes well tomorrow night . . . they might _actually_ break the spell . . . and then we’ll be –”

“Human again?” Chris finished gently.

“Ja . . .” Masumi hesitated, “ _human again_ ,”

Chris’s face fell as understanding took hold, “I’m guessing my little vanishing act didn’t exactly help . . . with the, ah, _nerves_?” he ventured, his tone repentant.

“That would be a fair assumption,” Masumi kindly concurred, “It’s just –”

“I understand, Müsli,” Chris soothed, “and I won't break my promise,”

“I know you won't, mein herzli” Masumi replied; soft and gentle, the chords of a thousand love songs stirring in his heart, “It’s just been _so long_. I want to be able to _feel_ you again. I want to touch you and hold you and take your hand in mine. I want you to run your fingers through my hair and . . . and steal kisses when you think no one’s watching, and pull me into your bed. I want to fall asleep with you in my arms. I . . . want to be able to wear my ring again,”

Chris smiled; warm and bright and beautiful as the sun. A few traitorous tears glittered in those beautiful hazel eyes, “You will, Müsli,” he promised, reaching out with a clumsy candle to brush Masumi’s hair from his eyes, “We’re . . . we’re so close. Any day now, my love. I swore I would do whatever it took to make us human again, and I _will._  I haven't forgotten or given up or changed my mind. I won’t rest until Viktor’s broken the spell . . . you believe me, right Müsli?”

Masumi didn’t trust himself to speak, so simply nodded instead; he didn’t usually get so emotional, and he wasn’t about to risk breaking down in a fit of tears on the veranda where everyone could see.

Chris tilted forward, pressing the cold metal of his once-lips to Masumi’s wooden forehead.

It wasn’t the same.

But it was better than nothing.

“Tell me what I can do,” Chris implored, “anything, Masumi,”

The feather duster sniffled quietly, gathering his composure once more, “Let’s just stay out here a little while longer,” he murmured.

“Of course,” Chris agreed, circling Masumi with stiff golden sconces.

Masumi longed to return his fiancé’s embrace; it always so painful to be reminded that he couldn’t.

They'd been engaged for less than a week when spell was cast; and even to this day, they still hadn't told a soul.

Life in the Castle had been very different before the spell; back then, the happy couple had decided to take their time sharing the news. Neither felt uncertain about the wedding, of course; Masumi was absolutely thrilled when Chris proposed; mooning about like a schoolboy for whole days afterward. However, living and working together, as well as being married on top of that was . . . complicated, to say the least; especially given their _particular_ history.

Then, the enchantress had shown up; and everything had changed.

Even though they'd had many opportunities since then to announce their impending nuptials, it never seemed right to do so; not with the spell the way it was and their futures so uncertain.

And so, Chris and Masumi had decided to wait and keep their engagement a secret until they were human again.

The wedding would happen as soon as the spell was broken. That’s what they had agreed; what they promised each other every night and repeated every morning and whispered every day, every time their enchanted world became just a little bit colder.

“Just a little while longer,” Masumi repeated, “. . . then we should really go unlock the wine cellar for Yuri,”

 

*****

 

Yuuri wrung the fine dark satin in his hands nervously, staring out his chamber door.

“I . . . I really should go help them . . .” he hedged.

Makka’s excited barking grew fainter and fainter as she raced down the corridor; her head trapped in a coat, Mila and Sara in tow.

Yuuri bit his lip; he couldn’t see this ending well at all.

“Nonsense!” Georgi objected, just a bit too sharply, “time runs short, Yuuri! The ladies have it well in hand!” he hummed, looking frantically about the chamber, “ah, yes! Perfect! Try this one first!”

Yuuri flinched, dropping the midnight blue waistcoat as a dark, glittering frock coat came barrelling towards him; flying through the air as if tossed by unseen hands.

It hit him square in the face.

“Pair it with those hose! Yes, yes those ones! And the black shoes!” Georgi insisted excitedly.

“But . . . it’s just, Makka is so much faster than they are,” Yuuri wheedled, “it would only take a second to –”

“Please, Yuuri! There’s not a second to waste!”

“But they don’t even have any hands –”

“I’m sure they’re having great fun –”

“I just don’t want them to get hurt –”

“They’ll be fine!”

“But if they fall down the stairs –”

“Yuuri! Don’t make a grown wardrobe beg!” Georgi wailed dramatically, “for ages my beauties have been kept in the dark, hidden away from the world, buried like a rare and glorious treasure! I simply must insist –”

“Alright, alright!” Yuuri conceded at last, “If you’re sure Makka will be okay . . .”

“Of course she will!” Georgi reiterated, flashing Yuuri his most winning smile, “now, off to the sitting room with you! Dress quickly!”

Yuuri cast Georgi a suspicious glance, but tentatively obeyed. He made his way over to the sitting room of his chamber, gathering up the hose and other accessories as he went.

With one last curious glance, Yuuri disappeared behind the towering white doors.

 

 

Georgi breathed an audible sigh of relief; thank goodness for Sara’s quick thinking.

He and Mila had done their best to stall, to change the subject when Yuuri had pressed them for the meaning of ‘lyubov moya’; but Yuuri was nothing if not stubborn, and did not seem ready to let it slide.

 _Fortunately_ , just beneath the cacophony of Mila’s clumsy excuses, Sara had snuck close to Makkachin, whispering:

“Who’s a good girl? Do you want a treat? Go get a treat, Makkachin!”

 _Unfortunately_ , Sara hadn’t realized that Makka had gotten herself all tangled up in the coats, and when the dog-stool bolted, they ended up getting a little more destruction than they’d bargained for.

But, the conversation had been completely derailed in the ensuing chaos, just as they’d hoped; and not a moment too soon.

Georgi was the first to admit that he was a hopeless romantic; a true champion of love! So _really_ , one could hardly expect him to keep Viktor’s words to himself! Georgi longed to tell Yuuri exactly what ‘lyubov moya’ meant so they could start planning the wedding right then and there!

But he also knew that he couldn’t just blurt it out! That wouldn’t do at all!

Knowing Viktor, he must have something special planned for the Ball . . . and far be it from Georgi to ruin it! Though it pained him, he knew he must hold his tongue; for his Prince, for the spell, for true love!

And so, Gerogi vowed to keep Viktor’s confession a secret, no matter what.

Yuuri would find out soon enough . . . and wouldn’t it be so much better to hear it from Viktor himself?

 

*****

 

Isabella silently followed J.J. to the Town Square; nervously biting her bottom lip as they passed through the little iron gate, crossed the small courtyard and trod up the stone steps to The Village Gaol.

The heavy wooden door swung open easily, and soon she was squinting in the gloom of the austere antechamber. Soft light fought its way in through the little windows, absorbed by the red oak and glinting off heavy iron manacles; no candles were lit, no lanterns hung.

It was deserted, save Captain Nishigori, who was slumped over his desk as always.

He looked even worse than J.J.; his mouth drawn in a deep frown, fingertips pressed to his temples, his eyes bloodshot and shadowed as if he hadn’t slept.

Isabella’s stomach tightened; she didn’t know why J.J. had brought them here, but whatever the reason, it couldn’t be good.

The hunter strode up to the Captain’s desk, the footfalls of his heavy black boots ringing out imperiously in the dismal office.

Nishigori sighed, “Please tell me you’re here because Louis Dubois fell down the well again”. His voice was monotone, and he did not look up to greet his guests.

“No such luck,” J.J. pouted, his tone as lifeless as the Captain’s.

At length, the Captain sat up, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to adopt a countenance of cordiality.

“It was an _accident_ ,” he asserted politely, “I’ve spoken with Phichit, I’ve spoken with Minako, I’ve spoken with the two of you, I’ve taken stock of the scene . . . and found nothing to suggest malicious intent. Now, if you’d please –”

“He shouldn’t have been allowed any of that shit in the first place . . . he was an accident waiting to happen and you know it, Takeshi,”

“Phichit apologised for blaming you, he took responsibility for the whole thing,”

“Without Yuuri here, there’s no one to keep him in line”

“Nobody was hurt, and Minako will be staying with him until further –”

“She’s a reckless as he is,”

“. . . You’re upset, many people are, and understandably so . . . but I’ve heard from all sides, I’ve gathered the pertinent information, and I’ve made my ruling. I will _not_ be filing for his arrest –”

“But Captain –”

“I will _not_ be filing for his arrest and that is _FINAL_!” Nishigori thundered, the slumbering Papa Bear inside violently roaring to life as he stood to meet J.J.’s eyes.

J.J. said nothing, just nodded pensively; annoyance written plainly across his face.

Isabella shrank back, her comprehension and control dwindling down to nothing.

After a moment the hunter looked back up at the Captain, incredulous.

“So this is what I get for trying to help. Why am I not surprised?”

He turned on his heel and started to lumber towards the massive doors.

Exasperation bloomed to life in Nishigori’s eyes, “My job is to uphold the law, not your _pride_ , J.J.,” he snapped, “And as much as I’m grateful for your assistance, I will _not_ have my judgement called into question in my own gaol!”

J.J. froze, fury softly smouldering behind his steely eyes,

Anger which only Isabella could see, since J.J. was facing away from the Captain.

Nishigori softened, regretful of his outburst. He slowly rounded his desk and came to stand in front of J.J., his tone slipping from admonishing to comforting, “Now is not the time for blame. The longer we draw this out, the longer it will take for The Village to move past it. My job is to keep the peace, J.J., and that’s what I’m trying to do,”

“I understand,” J.J. surrendered, a melancholy tilt to his mouth “I just thought you should know . . .”

When J.J. did not continue, Nishigori politely prompted him, “You thought that I should know what?”

J.J. sagged, feigning concern, “Well it’s just . . . this morning in the Tavern, Isabella and I . . . well, everyone’s pretty pissed, Captain,” the hunter slowly lowered his eyes, as if in submission, “I just wanted to warn you. If you don’t do something about Phichit . . . you may have an angry mob on your hands,”

Nishigori cussed softly, before turning his tired eyes on Isabella, “How bad is it? Tell me the truth,” he beseeched.

Isabella shivered, as if only now remembering her own existence.

She didn’t even know what the truth was anymore.

“Some are just worried . . . ” She answered slowly, trying to keep to the facts, to remain neutral, to warn Nishigori without giving J.J. any more fuel, “but . . . some are calling for his arrest and some are even . . .”

She couldn’t say it.

Not when she had no idea what J.J. was planning.

What could he possibly gain from Phichit’s arrest? Leverage? Revenge? Security?

Why wasn’t he telling Nishigori about the Beast, or the spell, or . . . Yuuri?

What could she do? Did she dare risk becoming part of J.J.’s machinations?

She supposed it was already too late.

J.J.’s heavy gaze weighed her down, pinned her in place . . . and she couldn’t bring herself to utter another word.

“Some are even . . ?” Nishigori pressed, the urgency in his tone belying his calm demeanor.

Isabella shook her head, “It’s just Stephan and Damien, they were just . . . they’re assholes. It’s not important . . . they wouldn’t actually –”

“Execution,” J.J. cut in, “some people want to see him hang”

“Damn it, Phichit!” Nishigori hissed, pressing the heels of his palms over his eyes.

He took another few deep breaths before regarding J.J. and Isabella again.

“I _can’t_ arrest him,” The Captain reasserted, slightly calmer after his outburst, “I _can’t_. Legally, he hasn’t done anything wrong. And he’s already . . . he’s lost so much already”.

“I understand, Captain . . . and believe me, _no one_ regrets this more than I,” J.J. soothed, slipping past Nishigori to leave once again, “But . . . upsetting as it is . . . perhaps this is for the best. I mean . . . just imagine if your _girls_ had been in that barn when it went up,”

Nishigori’s eyes narrowed, J.J. rambled on, “arresting Phichit may not be pleasant . . . but it’ll be safer for everyone”.

J.J. cast a comforting smile at the troubled Captain, who merely nodded in reply.

“Safer . . . for everyone,” Nishigori echoed, his mind somewhere far away.

The Captain seemed appeased, but Isabella could see J.J’s smile for what it truly was; his signature shit-eating grin.

“Well, Isabella and I should be off, Captain,” J.J. chirped, “I’m sure you’re _very_ busy,”

The heavy wooden door swung open easily, and soon Isabella was squinting in the glaring afternoon sun.

Her feet had unconsciously taken her outside, following J.J. as always.

Isabella furrowed her brow as they trod back down the stone steps, crossed the small courtyard, and passed through the little iron gate, emerging once more into the bustling marketplace.

They were nearly back to J.J.’s house, shuffling along in silence down a deserted side street, when Isabella’s feet refused to continue hauling her forward.

After a few paces, J.J. realized she was no longer at his side and turned back to her with a single raised brow.

He . . . he wasn’t even going to _say_ anything?

After _all that_ he didn’t even have the _decency_ to . . ?

“What the hell?” Her voice came out soft and shaky.

“Isabe–?”

“ _WHAT THE HELL, J.J._?” She thundered, a long-dormant volcano erupting inside her.

“Isabella, _STOP_!”

 “What the _HELL_ is wrong with you?” She railed, “Trying to get Phichit _arrested_? You and I _BOTH_ know the fire was _OUR faul_ –

J.J. scrambled over to her, kicking up dust and clamping a hand down over her mouth, “Shh! Lower your voice! Are you _trying_ to get us –?”

“ _Caught_? Yea, maybe I am. Maybe we should be!” She snarled, viciously shoving J.J. away from her.

Isabella had never been more furious in her life. Every single one of her limbs shook; her chest fluttered wildly, like her ribs might collapse on her at any second.

“Shh,” J.J. hissed, his voice low and urgent, “would you just shut up and listen to me for a second?”

Isabella opened her mouth to cuss J.J. out; her skeleton shifting from human to harpy as she wound up to wail.

But J.J. was faster.

“Who the _hell_ do you think is going to _stop that BEAST_ if _we’re_ in fucking _jail_?”

Isabella turned to stone.

J.J. paused, searching her eyes; she slowly closed her mouth as the lava cooled on her tongue.

The hunter turned away, furiously kicking a stray pebble off the path, before spinning back towards her. 

“Just . . . _Mercy’s Flaming Asshole_ , Isabella . . . just stop biting my fucking head off and _trust me_ , would ya?”

Isabella glared at him apprehensively.

J.J. sighed, “The Tinker _is_ dangerous . . .”

The lava inside Isabella began to burn and churn once more, “Jean Jacque Leroy, I swear by earth and sky, if you’re actually siding with _Stephan Boucher_ –”

“But he’s right!” J.J. protested, “All of them were, Isabella! Just . . . not for the reason they think,”

Isabella sneered, “You’re going to have to start making a lot more sense than that if you expect me to –”

“Why do you think the Tinker wouldn’t accept our help last night, hmm?” J.J. interjected, “Why do you think he and Minako kept all this a secret? Why do you think he tried to burn that map and stop us from finding Yuuri?”

Isabella rolled her eyes, “Because he’s lost his mind?” she guessed sarcastically, throwing her arms up in defeat.

J.J. was not cowed; instead, he looked around conspiratorially before stepping close, his voice hushed to almost a whisper, “Because he doesn’t _want_ Yuuri to be found . . .”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Isabella snapped, “even for . . . whatever _this_ is, you’re being ridiculous,”

“Am I?” J.J. objected, “Think about it, Isabella . . . those two kept something this important a secret from the _entire_ village for _months_. They lied to us _over and over and over again_ , sabotaged _all_ our attempts to help . . . and last night, the Tinker _destroyed_ that map, sacrificing his workshop in the process. Why would he do any of that if he actually cared about saving Yuuri?”

“Maybe . . .” Isabella felt suddenly choked; her throat as dry as a desert, “maybe it’s not that simple . . . maybe there’s something we’re missing . . .”

“Or maybe he’s getting something out of the deal,” J.J. suggested darkly.

Silence filled the dusty little side street, not even a cicada dared to chirp in the suffocating heat.

“The fire may not have been his fault,” J.J. offered at last, “but everything else, everything leading up to it, _is_. Maybe he’s just incompetent, maybe he really is insane, or maybe he’s something worse . . . but in any case, he’s _dangerous_. The secrets, the double-dealing, the fraud, the monsters, the magic . . . whatever he’s gotten himself into, it could get someone killed. Please, Isabella, you _have to_ see that,”

J.J.’s eyes were wide and imploring; big and shiny and full of desperation.

Isabella dropped her own eyes to the dirt at her feet.

“Still doesn’t feel right,” she murmured, “getting him thrown in jail like that,”

“But if it’s necessary to protect the town? To protect our friends?” J.J. insisted.

Isabella nodded miserably; J.J. had a point.

“We’ll sort everything out, I promise,” He vowed, placing his hands firmly on her shoulders; centering her, steadying her, “Once The Tinker is safely out of the way, we’ll go talk to the Tutor . . . though I don’t know if she’ll be _more_  agreeable or _less_  without that maniac around,”

Isabella nodded, and the two continued down the little side street in silence.

At length, J.J.’s two-story stonework house came in to view. They stood together morosely, as J.J. unlocked the door.

“What do think Yuuri will do . . . when he finds out?” Isabella murmured, hardly daring to breathe.

_‘CA-THUNK’_

The key turned sharply in the lock and the door swung open.

“It doesn’t matter,” J.J. replied, sombre and stoic, “this is bigger than my feelings now. I have to protect The Village. I just hope he'll understand,” he slid into the dim lodge, with Isabella trailing behind.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I know we have to . . . but it’s still not fair . . . if he ends up hating you for this, I mean,”

J.J. frowned, shutting the door behind them, “Well . . . it’s like Damien said,” he sighed, “this is what I get for being the good guy,”

 

***

 

“Marvelous, Yuuri! Simply Marvelous! I’ve never seen such a vision!”

“You don’t think it’s a little too . . . sinister?” Yuuri hedged, gazing at his reflection in the gold-framed, full length mirror.

Georgi pouted, “What? Don’t be silly! I – ”

“No, Yuuri’s right,” Mila interjected, “He looks so . . . grim. Like he’s going to start putting curses on people or something.”

“Yea, it’s pretty creepy alright . . . but at least the _colours_ look nice on him,” Sara chimed in.

“What? I’ve never heard such _slander_! Are you people _trying_ to drive a knife into my heart?” Georgi wailed.

Yuuri examined himself in the mirror once more as Mila, Sara and Georgi filled the chamber with noise.

Makkachin snoozed in the corner, exhausted after her little adventure.

Yuuri was just glad she was alright.

This _outfit_ however . . .

It wasn’t _bad_ per se . . . it just wasn’t particularly _romantic_.

The frock coat was made of a soft velvet; a murky blue shade, which nearly looked black in the wrong light. However, unlike most frock coats, this one did not use the same material all the way through. The bottom half of the coat, starting where it flared out from the waist, was a deep olive green colour, while the trim was a beautiful shade of fuchsia. Yuuri had to admit that the piece did come together quite nicely, as most of the coat had been embroidered with little iridescent beads; millions of colourful sequins sparkling in shades of blue and purple and indigo.

But the most striking feature of the frock coat was undoubtedly the large collar which had been added; great, wide lapels that fell over Yuuri’s chest, back and shoulders in a sunburst of sequined spikes.

The hem of the coat had also been cut in a similar jagged pattern.

Together with a pair of dark blue hose and black buckled shoes, Yuuri thought he looked irredeemably ominous.

“Why don’t I try something else on?” he suggested hopefully, “We, uh . . . we shouldn’t just go with the first outfit we see, right?”

The staff fell silent; their argument forgotten.

“You’re absolutely right, Yuuri!” Georgi gasped, “I have _so many_ . . . it would be an _utter travesty_ to let even _one_ go unseen!”

Yuuri perked up ever-so-slightly, “there was this really nice blue one I saw earlier –”

“Here!” Georgi cried, completely ignoring Yuuri in his excitement, “This one Yuuri! It’s perfect! Much lighter! Much _sweeter_! Much . . . _softer_ ,”

A pale, brocade justacorpse drifted into Yuuri’s hands of its own accord, and he took hold of it with a sigh; at least he hadn’t been hit in the face this time.

He gathered up the accessories which Georgi pointed out, and once again disappeared behind the sitting room door.

 

*****

 

“Vitya, why did you drag me up here?”

Yakov let out a low growl, continuing to clamber through the piles of refuse with as much dignity as he could muster. Rummaging through the mountains of garbage in the third floor storeroom was _not_  what he considered to be a worthwhile use of his time.

 _‘Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, ting, clang, THUNK’_.

A brass coat rack came crashing to the ground as Yakov tripped over its rickety feet; the Major Domo landed face-down, his pendulum bouncing painfully against his panelling. His head rattled as his chimes went off three times in slow succession.

_‘BONG, BONG, BONG,'_

Yakov grimaced; how embarrassing.

Vitya would _pay_ for this.

Just as he was silently cursing the foolish Prince, Viktor turned back towards the mess, towering high above him in the endless sea of detritus.

With a devious smirk and a smothered chuckle, Viktor reached out and scooped Yakov up in those beastly paws of his; plunking him down atop a precarious pile of boxes.

Yakov _hated_ it when he did that.

But _at least_ they were almost eye-to-eye now.

“What’s wrong, Yakov?” Viktor laughed, “I told you, we’re looking for –”

“Something you can wear to the ball, yes, I know _that_ ,” Yakov interrupted tersely, “I meant, why in Mercy’s name did you select _ME_ for this particular task? This sort of nonsense seems much better suited to Giacometti’s talents –”

“Chris is busy helping Masumi,” Viktor replied flippantly, resuming his careful progression through the labyrinth of dusty wardrobes, towering trunks and moth eaten furniture.

“And why is it that you require any assistance at all, when –”

Yakov stopped short.

Viktor had once again turned to face him, and blast it all, the damn fool was _pouting_ ; an expression which would have been adorable on a human child, but just looked grossly unintelligent on an 8 foot tall beast with fangs and an under-bite.

Yakov rolled his eyes; Mercy, give him patience.

“Fine,” The Major Domo huffed, “But don’t expect me to be good company, Vitya,”

Viktor’s face brightened instantly, “Don’t worry Yakov, I never do!” he teased, spinning back around and knocking over a stack of ancient periodicals in the process.

Yakov raised an incredulous eyebrow; Victor shrugged innocently.

“Ah . . . oops?”

“Just . . . keep looking,” Yakov sighed, resigning himself to his fate.

This boy would be the death of him.

Viktor’s tail thumped happily against laundry sacks and wooden cabinets as he scoured the store-room; fading from view and re-appearing between the swaying stacks every so often, like a predator’s fin lurking just below the ocean’s waves.

Yakov settled in; keeping an impatient eye on the clumsy beast who was currently poking, prodding, and even _sniffing_ his way through the massive attic.

Though, he had to admit, his Vitya did seem . . . happy.

Yakov had been employed at Nikiforov Mannor for decades now, long before Viktor was even born. He’d known the little Prince all his life, but not once could Yakov recall him ever having this much joie de vivre. Although the Major Domo admittedly had a preference for the logical, disciplined temperament of pre-spell Viktor, even _he_ was pleased to see that his dear Prince was much less miserable now . . . and in fact, much more _human_ too; even with the fangs and fur.

All of which was most certainly Katsuki Yuuri’s fault; Yakov would have to remember to thank him for that.

‘SCREEEEEE, THWAP!’

An oil painting slid down the wall, knocking boxes over like dominoes.

_‘CRASH’_

_‘THUD’_

_‘CLANG’_

_‘BONG’_

_‘SPLAT’_

“I’m okay!”

Yakov let out a fond snort.

This boy really _would_ be the death of him.

Nearly an hour passed before Viktor dug his way out of the heaping mess; picking his way carefully back over to Yakov, crestfallen and empty-handed.

“I . . . ah, suppose it was a long shot,” Viktor murmured, “I’m sure I can make do with what I have,”

Yakov frowned, not knowing what to say. He knew how important tomorrow evening was to Vitya; and not just because of the spell.

The clock's glassy eyes scrutinized the store-room, slowly scanning every nook and cranny in the hopes that he would spy something which his Prince had not, but to no avail.

Every box, very cupboard, every trunk, every chest; Viktor had searched them all.

Yakov growled, personally offended that the Enchanted Castle had not seen fit to make Vitya's quest a success.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Yakov caught sight of a sheer sleeve, dangling right next to the stack of boxes on which he was perched. After a quick moment of consideration, he leapt for it, holding on tight with his metal hands and shimmying up onto another, taller pile of garbage.

He needed higher ground, after all.

“Yakov? What are you –?”

“Hush Vitya!” Yakov snapped, “I’m working!”

He didn't see anything promising right off the bat, but Yakov would not be deterred; slowly, he rotated, balancing on his new tower and surveying the store room once again. Finally, he turned to look back the way they had come; perhaps they had missed something on the way in?

“Vitya . . . what about that one?” Yakov called, spying a tall wooden armoire near the attic door, which he was _certain_ had not been there before.

It was elegant, finely carved and in good repair; looking brand-new and terribly out of place in the cemetery of belongings. The wood had been stained a rich purple, the trim painted with gold and the doors ornamented with opalescent pearl handles. It almost seemed to glow, draped in its very own a ray of sunlight, though all the windows in the store room had been covered over long ago. 

Viktor turned, gasping as his eyes locked on the armoire, “. . . do you think . . ?”

“Go find out,” Yakov shrugged, feigning disinterest.

With a brief nod, Viktor slid over to it, reverently placing his paws on the ornate knobs.

_‘click,’_

The doors swung open and Viktor froze.

“Oh . . . _Yakov_ . . .” he sighed, mesmerized by the contents, “It’s _perfect_ ”.

Yakov smiled, “Well then, pack it up and let’s go Vitya. We don’t have all day,”

Viktor grinned at Yakov over his shoulder; wide and wondrous and free.

And as Yakov watched Viktor gather the garment carefully into his arms, he decided that perhaps magic really wasn’t such a terrible thing after all.

 

*****

 

“Much better!” Mila appraised, as Yuuri emerged from the sitting room once again.

“ _Much_ , much better!” Sara agreed with a smile.

“Yuuri!” Georgi exclaimed, “Yuuri, you look so beautiful I want to cry!”

And judging by the wardrobe’s expression, the tears were about to fall any second.

Yuuri crossed the room sheepishly to look at his reflection.

Mila and Sara were right. It was . . . better.

Not breathtaking, but . . . better.

The body of the justacorpse was made of beautiful slate-blue brocade, with fine silver thread woven throughout in a subtle pattern. A sash of snowy white ringed the waist and another embellished the shoulders; this one was a charming periwinkle hue, the shade so light it was almost white itself. A bold brooch pinned it in place; a palm-sized sapphire nestled into a large white backing; the shape of which was abstract, but reminiscent of a clutch of feathers, or perhaps a dove’s wing.

Georgi had paired this outfit with deep teal-coloured hose and tall white boots.

Although Yuuri had to admit that this was a marked improvement from the first outfit, somehow, it still didn’t feel _quite_ right.

“It’s . . . nice,” He said at last, tilting his head as he scrutinized his reflection.

Georgi’s face fell, “. . . you hate it . . .”

“No!” Yuuri cried, swivelling to face the wardrobe, “no, no, no, no, no, no, no! It’s . . . it’s beautiful, Georgi! I just meant . . . it’s not quite . . .”

“It’s not _you_ ,” Georgi finished, with a small, sympathetic smile.

“Not . . . not really, no,” Yuuri agreed quietly.

He sucked in a breath; _mercy_ , what was the _matter_ with him? Why was he being so _difficult_? Yuuri had never thought of himself as picky before, and certainly not about fashion of all things. He should really just consider himself lucky he was even being allowed to –

“Well, good thing we have all day!” Georgi cried, chipper as ever, “and _hundreds_ of choices! Oooh, this is going to be so _fun_!”

Yuuri’s stomach dropped, “ _H-hundreds_?”

“What about this one?” Mila chirped, holding up a swath of hot pink silk, “try something _really_ different!”

“But he looks _so good_ in blue!” Sara whined, “It brings out his eyes!”

“Well,” Yuuri hummed, “there’s that dark blue one that I –”

“I know!” Georgi hollered, “How about _GOLD_?”

Mila and Sara cooed with delight, the three enchanted staff members happily bubbling about in their little sea of excitement. 

Yuuri smiled, though his stomach was still trying itself into knots.

There were just  _so many_ choices . . . how would he know which one was right?

He wondered which one Viktor might like.

Yuuri immediately blushed; what an embarrassing thing to think! Not for the first time, he was immensely grateful that nobody in the castle was able to read his mind.

“Ohh, this one is red! I bet he would look great in red!”

“What about black? Black is just so _elegant_ ,”

“No! Too simple! Too dour! Too trite! He must have _colour_!”

 “Hey, Georgi?” Yuuri interjected, slipping seamlessly into the conversation, “I, uh . . . I don’t think you had a chance to answer my question earlier . . . you know, about what lyubov mo–”

“THE PINK ONE!” Mila suddenly screamed, “GO TRY THE PINK ONE ON YUURI!”

“AND THE GOLD ONE AFTER THAT!” Georgi added.

“WHAT ABOUT THIS ONE?” Sara wailed, “TRY THIS ONE TOO! LOOK, IT’S COVERED IN _DIAMONDS_!”

In an instant, Yuuri was drowning in a tidal wave of finery, and ushered back into the sitting room to change.

He heaved fond sigh, arranging the outfits neatly along his little couch; two down, only hundreds more to go.

 

*****

 

Afternoon sunlight drenched the small cottage on the hill outside of town; a hazy, ochre toned thing, heavy and hot and stifling.

Phichit furrowed his brow; the cogs and gears in his mind spinning double-time.

It was a race against the clock now. The only way to make things right again, to only way to fix things and stop J.J. and keep Yuuri safe was to figure out how to break the spell.

After all, J.J. couldn’t hunt a Beast, if there was no Beast to hunt.

Their only advantage was that J.J. had no idea where the Castle was; he and Isabella might have had a name, but there was no way for them to find it.

Not without Phichit’s help, anyway; but he had no doubt that J.J. would be coming for him any minute now.

No. Focus.

He couldn’t allow himself any distractions.

Phichit hummed pensively; Minako had just given him _everything_ he needed to solve this puzzle. He was sure of it. 

Now, if _only_ he could piece it all together.

“One more time,” Phichit requested; his good leg bouncing as he screwed his eyes shut.

A very tired voice replied, “We’ve been over it a dozen times already . . .”

“Just –” Phichit begged, “Just once more. I’ve almost got it. Something. Maybe,”

It was all very had to put together in his head, but he didn’t dare write anything down this time; not after what happened with the map. 

Minako propped her chin in her hands with a demure sigh. Phichit opened his eyes and frowned; mercy, she looked exhausted . . .

But Phichit couldn’t stop now, not when he was so close and J.J. was nipping at his heels. Who knew what that maniac was plotting; even now, in the wake of the disaster he’d caused?

“You used to live there. Nikiforov Mannor. You left 20 years ago for some reason, and when the spell was cast you lost all your memories and couldn’t return home, right?”

Phichit could tell his rambling was grating on Minako, “that’s the theory, more or less,” she drawled, her forehead creasing in pain.

“And The Beast . . . he gave you a monogrammed kerchief . . . why?”

“ _Master Nikiforov_ ,” Minako corrected sharply, “and I don’t know why . . . I can’t remember,”

“But you can!” Phichit cried, leaping to his feet.

“I can’t!” Minako hissed, sliding her hands up to shield her eyes.

Phichit’s gaze flickered fretfully around the cottage. He quickly bounced to each of the windows, pulling the shutters closed and locking them tight.

No knowing who could be listening in, after all.

Besides . . . it looked like the light was bothering Minako.

“But you do! You remember tons!” Phichit objected; aiming for encouraging, but instead landing on the wrong side of exasperated. He latched the final window shut and plunked himself down beside her to try again, “You remember living there, you remember being a courtesan . . . all those lessons, all those stories you used to tell –”

“Came straight out of classic romance novels. I’ve a dozen on my shelf at least.”

Phichit paused, the cogs slowing, “They . . . what?”

“They weren’t real,” Minako admitted softly, “The names, the places, the people . . . none of it was”

“But . . . they _were_ ,” Phichit protested, his voice barely a whisper.

“No they weren’t –”

“They _were_!” Phichit asserted, “The timeline is too perfect for it to be coincidence. How else could you have gotten that handkerchief? How could you have taught Yuuri to dance, or helped Davey Millar with –?”

“I don’t have any _memories_ , Phichit,” Minako snapped, her lip quivering as she spoke, tears precariously close to falling, “All I have are guesses and lies and shadows and dreams and . . . feelings,”

“But –”

“I may have been a scullery maid!” Minako wailed suddenly, “watching and learning what I was never meant to know. I might have been fired, or disgraced, or evicted . . . for all I know, I might have _stolen_ this handkerchief, Phichit!”

She dropped her eyes, cradling her head in her hands; the very picture of defeat.

For the first time ever, the cogs in Phichit’s brain came to a screeching halt.

She just looked so . . . sad.

This wasn’t the Minako he knew.

His Minako was young and clever and poised and beautiful and determined and strong. 

But _this_ Minako, _this_ woman sitting here with her name and her clothes and her face . . . she wasn’t even substantial enough to be Minako’s shadow.

A cold hand gripped Phichit's chest. He recognized the handiwork; The Mad Tinker had struck again.

But this time, he hadn't gambled his safety or taunted a rival or burned down a building.

No, he'd done something much, much worse; he'd hurt the only friend he had left in the world. 

Remorse hacked at Phichit's insides, chipping him away, little by little.

 _He_ had done this; he had worn her down with his interrogation, running roughshod over her feelings. He had seen fit to sacrifice her well-being for his answers; and after all she had done for him, too.

It wasn't his reputation which made him The Mad Tinker. It wasn’t his inventions or his intelligence or his imagination. It was his recklessness; it was his ego and his single-mindedness and his scorn.

It wasn’t his brain that was the problem; it was his heart.

Perhaps that's why he'd found the nickname so hard to escape. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Phichit whispered, not knowing what else to say.

Minako sniffed, looking back up, “for what?”

“For . . . you know, putting the screws to you like that,” Phichit murmured.

“It’s fine,” Minako insisted, dabbing at her eyes with her monogrammed handkerchief, “we have to figure this out,”

Phichit frowned, “No we don’t, not this very second,” he offered sympathetically, echoing Minako's earlier sentiment. 

Minako nodded. They sat in miserable silence for a moment, before Phichit stood to make another pot of tea.

Maybe that might make her feel better?

The cottage was quiet, save the shuffling of his feet and the snapping of the fireplace and the clinking of the teacups on the table.

“I’m trying to remember, Phichit, really I am,” Minako apologized softly.

“You don’t have to,” Phichit soothed, carefully pouring the boiling water from the fireplace into his plain porcelain teapot, “you’ve been trying for 20 years . . . I shouldn’t have given you such a hard time about it. We can’t expect you to just magically remember everything. That's not fair to you”.

“It’s just so _frustrating_ ,” Minako huffed, “I _know_ that if I could just remember _something_ we could put an end to this whole stupid mess,”

_Tick, tick, tick,’_

A single gear started to turn in his brain; Phichit froze, teapot in hand.

“Say that again?” he requested.

Minako raised an eyebrow, “this is frustrating?” she guessed.

“No . . . after that,” Phichit clarified, nearly dropping the teapot back onto the table in his haste, “about ending things”.

He quickly stumbled over to the bookshelf; he was on to something, he was _certain_ of it.

“Um,” Minako hummed, “If . . . if I could remember something then we’d be able to end this?”

“Exactly!” Phichit cried, not looking up from the sea of titles before him.

“But, I _can’t_ remember anything, Phichit” Minako insisted.

“Also exactly,” Phichit replied, still entranced by the tomes on the shelf.

“Exactly, _what_?” Minako huffed, crossing her arms. 

“You _can’t_ remember anything,” Phichit repeated, ‘eureka’ poised on the tip of his tongue, “But . . . what if you _did_?”

Minako sighed, “Alright, now you’ve lost me,"

"We’ve been going about this _all wrong,_ " Phichit gasped, trying to slow his racing mind enough to explain, "We’re not dealing with the rules of logic, here . . . we’re dealing with the rules of _magic_. ”

“So, you’re saying . . . we need to figure out how the magic _works_ first?” Minako puzzled, trying to follow Phichit’s rapid train of thought.

“Exactly!” Phichit declared for the umpteenth time, his voice a rapid monotone, “magic is just a specific type of system, the same way machines and the human body are types of systems, with their own unique sets of parts. But you can't fix any object, any _system_ , if you don't know how it's supposed to work in the first place. If you don't know how a thing is supposed to work, then you can't identify where the weak points are. And if you can't identify where the weak points are, you won't be able to pinpoint the root cause of the problem. And if you can't pinpoint the root cause of the problem, then you can't properly resolve the issue. And if you don't understand how a thing works, or why it broke in the first place, then you have no hope of preventing the problem from reoccurring. BUT, unlike a machine, or a biological creature, this _spell_ , this _system_ we're dealing with, isn't governed by the laws of physics. It's governed by it's own set of rules: the laws of _magic_. If we can figure out _what_ those parameters are and find a way to subvert them . . . find the _weak point_ in that system . . ."

 

Minako grinned, "You sound like you have an idea".

Phichit took a deep breath, "Well, let's put it this way: imagine the Bea - er, _Master Nikiforov_ , needs to get through this 'door', but it's locked. If he can't find the _key_ . . . maybe _we_ can unscrew the hinges, or pick the lock, or just kick it down from the inside. It's not an _elegant_ solution, but -" 

"But better than nothing. Where do we start?" Minako chirped.

Phichit closed his eyes, marshaling his thoughts, "According to the parameters of the spell, no one outside the castle should be able to remember anything, right? Now, Yuuri and I both know what's going on because we _saw_ it with our very own eyes. But we didn't _remember_ it. We only _found_ it. We _learned_ about it by accident. We're both too young to remember anything of significance before the spell . . . but you - "

"Watch it," Minako warned playfully.

" _You_ ," Phichit continued, looking back to his friend, "You knew everything once. All of it. Then the spell forced you to forget. But _somehow_ you still have these . . . _feelings_. Why? That must mean _something_ , right?”

Minako narrowed her eyes, “I _suppose_ ,” she allowed suspiciously.

“So, what if they became _more_ than feelings?” Phichit postulated, “what if you found a way to remember . . . not  _because_ of the spell, but _in spite_ of it?”

“You mean . . .” Minako hedged, “if, _somehow_ , I was able to remember what happened, the spell might lose it's power over me?" 

Phichit nodded, "An error in the system. A breech of the rules. A flaw that destabilizes the structure. Permanently. I hope,"

"Alright!" Minako cried triumphantly, "Let's kick down this door!" She leapt to her feet, joining Phichit by the bookshelf. “So,” she asked, bright and determined once more, “what are we looking for, here?”

Phichit didn’t answer, just continued to scan the dozens of titles crammed together on the shelves.

 

Okāsan’s Recipe Book.

 

Otōsan’s Joke Book.

Ojīsan’s Book of Knots & Sailing.

Ojīsan’s Guide of the Eastern Isles.

Mari’s Sketchbook.

Mari's Old Schoolbooks.

Phichit’s Old Schoolbooks.

Yuuri’s Old Schoolbooks.

Yuuri’s Guide to Etiquette.

Yuuri’s Elocution Texts.

Yuuri’s Music Theory Books.

Yuuri's Sheet Music.

Yuuri’s Astronomy Book.

Yuuri's Star Chart.

Yuuri’s –

There!

Found it!

Phichit slid his fingers carefully over the thin yellow volume, and slowly unearthed it from its resting place.

“Something to jog your memory,” he grinned, holding aloft the rough, worn tome; long and wide, with a faded cover and cracked binding and dog-eared pages.

Yuuri’s Atlas.

“It looks old,” Minako ventured cautiously.

Phichit nodded, “More than 20 years. It used to belong to Ojisan,”

Minako’s eyes lit up and Phichit felt a small bubble of pride swell in his chest.

Why hadn’t he thought of this before?

He quickly turned back towards the kitchen table, splaying the atlas out on its lonely surface; Minako trailing behind.

With a deep breath, Phichit began to leaf through the pages.

Profiles, histories, records, data, and of course, maps; maps, maps and more maps; maps of every province and territory and country and continent and sea and ocean and river and lake. Maps of the entire world.

At long last he came to a map of their home.

His eyes went wide.

Well . . . _this_ certainly wasn’t what he’d been expecting . . .

Phichit swallowed roughly, “Minako,” he croaked, “I . . . I don’t think this is what our province is called . . .”

Minako shook her head, hardly daring to peep over Phichit’s shoulder, “It’s not” she confirmed.

Phichit frowned, his heart hammering against his chest, “The name in the atlas is distinctly more _Northern_ , wouldn’t you say?”

“I might. If pressed,” Minako conceded, her voice tight.

Phichit couldn’t look away, “Yuuri . . . he must have read this thing a thousand times. He probably thought it was just old . . . outdated or something,” he whispered, turning a page.

He tried to think back to his and Minako’s previous investigations; was _this_ where he’d gotten the idea that their home province had once been Northern Territory? From Yuuri? From this atlas?

And even more concerning . . . should their home _still_ be Northern Territory?

“Stop!” Minako hissed, pulling Phichit sharply from his reverie, “Look!”

On the next yellowed page was a profile of The Province; Histories, Ruling Houses & Noble Lines, Division of Barony’s and Duchy’s, Places of Note and other Miscellaneous Data.

Phichit’s heart hammered in his chest.

“We . . . we did it!” He cried, “We –”

‘Tap . . . tap, tap, tap’

Phichit slammed the atlas shut, jumping at the sound.

Someone was at the door.

_J.J._

It _had to be_ him . . . it _had to be_ –

“Phichit?” A solemn voice called from outside, “Minako? Are you there? I need to speak with you,”

Minako let out a windy sigh, “It’s only the Captain,” she soothed, “It’s fine Phichit. Answer it”. She quickly scooped the atlas into her arms.

Reluctantly, Phichit nodded, pulling himself away from Minako, from the Atlas, from the answers he so desperately sought.

He tried to take a calming breath; Nishigori probably just had a few more questions about the fire.

Phichit had nearly forgotten all about that.

But he could handle this; he was fine. Everything was _fine_. He and Minako had placated the Captain last night. Phichit had apologized. The Captain had ruled it an accident. Phichit was fine; he was _fine_! Minako was fine. She was here, they were together, and nothing was going to –

 _‘Click’_.

With a trembling hand, Phichit opened the heavy oak door.

 

*****

 

Yuuri sighed, slipping his arm into a midnight-blue satin sleeve.

This afternoon had been _endless_.

He’d lost track of how many outfits he’d tried on; at last count it was twenty two.

And he _still_ hadn’t found the right one.

However, Mila, Sara and Georgi had kept in good spirits, reassuring Yuuri that he was destined to find something absolutely perfect for the ball tomorrow night.

But everything he’d tried on so far either hadn’t looked right, or hadn’t fit right, or hadn’t felt right; each ensemble ending up in one of two piles: ‘Maybe, If We Can’t Find Anything Better’ or ‘Oh, For The Love Of Mercy, Absolutely _Not_ ’

Yuuri had tried on dozens of outfits his friends had suggested, even the ones he knew he wouldn’t like. It took longer doing it that way, but they were just so excited to help and Yuuri didn’t want to ruin their fun.

But he was starting to tire, and the less success he had, the more anxious he became. Despite what Phichit and Minako and even – _ugh_ – J.J. said, deep down, Yuuri knew he really wasn’t anything special to look at.

And he most certainly wasn’t _‘beautiful’_.

The only time he'd ever even came _close_ to feeling _‘beautiful’_ was when he danced . . . more specifically, when he danced for _Viktor;_  and now that he was finally going to be dancing _with_ Viktor he just thought it might be nice . . . if for once in his life, he looked as beautiful as Viktor made him feel.

A foolish little thought, but one which had nagged at him all afternoon. He knew it didn’t actually matter what he wore, of course; he would have a wonderful time, regardless.

Still though . . . was it really so wrong to hope? 

Now, 22 outfits and 22 disappointments later, the sun was starting to set.

His energy and his optimism were both waning, but Yuuri was nothing if not stubborn. So, determined to get things back on track, he had snuck the lavish midnight-blue waistcoat into his next batch of outfits; the one he’d had his eye on all day.

The waistcoat was part of a suit; three pieces with a matching satin coat and breeches, all in the same stunning shade. The waistcoat and breeches were simply decorated, with only a few bits of embroidery on the pockets, but the coat was fully embellished.

The back and shoulders were covered with tiny diaphanous beads; silver at first glance, they glittered every colour of the rainbow when they light caught just right. A large design of soft taupe-coloured leather was centered on the back; a diamond-like shape, which wrapped around the coat on both sides, narrowing in at the front to accentuate the waist line; the points of the diamond met at both sides of the center seam, almost like a belt. Elegant sweeping designs like the waves of a fountain, like curling petals and sighing leaves, like dainty fleurs de lys, had been embroidered all across the leather; small emerald patterns ran along the sides, while a large burgundy-plum design was featured down the length of the spine.

Yuuri had paired these pieces with simple white hose and shiny black shoes.

The finishing touch was a silk organza cravat, slightly sheer and dyed a deep, dreamy shade of eggplant purple.

The ensemble was simple, yet elegant, subtle, yet stunning; eye-catching without being egregious.

He wondered if Viktor would like it.

Yuuri took a deep breath. He was getting ahead of himself; he should at least see what his friends thought first, right?

He slipped wordlessly back into his chamber, polished shoes clicking softly on the hardwood floor.

Boisterous laughter turned to silence as Yuuri approached.

“Well . . . what do you think?”

All three looked at him with wide eyes and slackened jaws.

“Oh, Yuuri . . .” Mila sighed.

“It’s . . .” Sara began, fluttering her brackets when she couldn’t find the words.  

“What? Is it really that bad?” Yuuri squeaked, swivelling towards the mirror.

“No, Yuuri . . .” Georgi replied, “. . . it’s _perfect_ ”

Yuuri’s reflection smiled back at him; Georgi was absolutely right.

 

*****

 

Captain Nishigori stood on the veranda of the small cottage on the hill outside of town, his posture straight and tall; looking very authoritative in his navy uniform.

“Nishigori!” Phichit chirped, just a little too loudly, “I mean, Captain Nighigori! What a surprise! Come in! Should I invite you in? I mean if this is _official_ , I probably shouldn’t but –”

His nervous waterfall of words ceased with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Minako.

She was right there. She had the atlas. He was fine. He could do this –

“I’ll get right to the point,” Nishigori began; his eyes were downcast, his expression unreadable.

Something was wrong.

“I need your help, Phichit”

Though he should have been relieved by those words, for some reason Phichit still felt like there were spiders crawling up his spine.

“I . . . uh . . . sure. Sure thing, Captain. Ask away,” Phichit invited, with a strained smile and a voice full of tacks.

Nishigori kept his eyes fixed on the ground, like he couldn’t bring himself to speak, "I need you to come with me,"

A deep dread settled over Phichit, “This is about the fire, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Yea . . . it’s about the fire Phichit,” Nishigori confirmed.

Minako bristled beside him, “I thought that it had been ruled an accident?” she hissed.

“It was,” Nishigori sighed, “it still is, but –”

“But _what_?” Minako snapped.

“But Phichit’s in trouble,” The Captain blurted; something harsh tainting his normally calm demeanor, “People aren’t too happy about what happened,”

“S-so?” Minako objected, “sounds to me like that’s _their_ problem. Phichit didn’t do anything –”

“Didn’t do anything wrong. I _know_ ,” Nishigori finished, “and more importantly, I _agree_. But . . . I still need him to come with me,”

The world turned to ice; Phichit’s heart didn’t dare to beat.

“You’re . . . _arresting_ me?” he gasped; shock and betrayal soaking him to the bone.

“NO!” Nishigori refuted sharply, “I’m _not_ arresting you, Phichit. Not on the record. I don't even have a warrant . . . but this is the only way I can keep you safe,”

“Safe? Safe from _what_ , exactly?” Minako growled, shifting to place herself between Phichit and the Captain.

Nishigori pondered a moment; turning the facts over in his mind, trying to find a nice way to say whatever it was he had to say.

In the end, he went with the truth; the terrible, _terrible_ truth.

“People think you’re dangerous, Phichit. They’re scared. And when people get scared, they get angry. And when enough people get angry about something, they tend to take justice into their own hands,”

Phichit swayed slightly; cold, numb, and terrified. More terrified right here and now than he had ever been in the woods. It was the type of fear which suffocated, which pinned you down and bled you dry until you couldn’t fight anymore. The type of fear that dragged your head below the waves until your lungs filled with sea water and your skull caved in from the pressure. The type of fear that sucked the fire from your soul and then left you to freeze.

“But _I’m_ not going to let that happen,” Nishigori vowed, “I won't lie to you. People have been calling for your arrest and _worse_ , Phichit. If they start to march, I don’t have the numbers to stop them. I’ve got maybe half a dozen guys on a good day, but with Sergeant Tsubaki retiring and Lee out with hay-fever and Ebele about to have her first child . . . I’m all you got. And unfortunately, I have to act _now_ . . . before this gets out of hand,”

Phichit nodded automatically; his soul no longer in his body.

“So, what are you proposing?” Minako demanded, her voice thin and reedy and strained; right on the verge of collapse.

“Let me take Phichit for a few days –”

“To _JAIL_?” Minako screeched, offended to her very core.

“Yes. To _the_ gaol,” Nishigori corrected, “We’ll do a little song and dance, show people that their concerns are being taken seriously, and lay low until this all blows over. Phichit will be released in a couple days, publically cleared and found innocent of _any and all_ liability. But _more importantly_ , no one can reach Phichit if he’s in my custody. The gaol’s empty and half the guards are on leave. He'll be _safe_ there. The paper-work will stay as-is, nothing goes on his record, and we’ll keep Lord Maire Marchand out of this. We . . . we don’t even have to lock the cell, I swear”.

The offer hung in the air; Nishigori’s words building spider webs between Phichit’s ribs.

Minako was silent; and so was he.

“ _Please_ , Phichit,” Nishigori begged, “I know this isn’t right. It isn’t fair . . . but _it’s_ _the only way_ I can _protect_ you,”

Phichit blinked.

Oh.

The captain had been waiting for him to answer.

“ _You_ know I’m innocent though . . .” the whisper hardly dared to sneak past his lips.

“I _do_ ,” Nishigori apologized, “I know you’re innocent, Phichit, and I wish things could be different but –”

“No,” Phichit murmured, “Not that. I mean . . . you _believe_ it, right? You and Yuuko and the girls . . . you don’t . . . you don’t think I’m _dangerous_ . . . do you?”

His lips trembled as a few glittering tears rolled down his cheeks.

 _Dangerous_.

The word cut him to the very bone.

People thought he was  _dangerous._

 _Him. Dangerous;_  the guy who'd lived in the small cottage on the hill just outside of town for his entire life. The guy who loved his family; loved his brother more than anything else in the world. The guy who could make anybody laugh. The guy who fixed everything in town with a smile; the guy who mended toys and painted dolls and befriended mice. 

People thought _that guy_ was _dangerous_?

Not strange or eccentric or loony or negligent . . . but actually _dangerous_?

If this was what he got for being "The Mad Tinker", then Phichit was even more alone in the world than he'd thought.

The sun was beginning to set; orange and pink melting over the horizon.

“ _No_ ,” Nishigori answered resolutely, “It was an _accident_. You’re _not_ dangerous, Phichit. I wouldn’t be here helping you if I thought that . . . I wouldn’t have trusted you with my girls if I thought that,”

Phichit’s hands curled into fists. He couldn’t stop a great ugly sob from clawing its way out of his throat; relief and despair blending into something truly tragic.

Minako and the Captain stood frozen like statues until Phichit finally collected himself, wiping the tears away with the billowing white sleeve of the shirt that was probably Yuuri’s.

“Okay,” He agreed at last, lifting his eyes to meet Nishigori’s, “let’s go”

Nishigori nodded once, something like pride lurking beneath his stoic expression, “Three days, Phichit. Just give me _three days._  I promise we’ll make things right”

Phichit swallowed hard and turned to Minako, who was openly weeping.

“I’ll take care of everything,” she promised, clutching the atlas with all her might. “I’ll come see you,”

Phichit tried to smile, which only served to set the tears off once again.

Minako lunged forward, hugging him tightly.

Phichit returned the embrace, but not the affection; he just felt so . . . empty. Perhaps he was maturing, learning to have fewer emotions? Or maybe there were just so many terrible things happening that his brain had finally just shut down altogether.

At length, Minako released Phichit into Nishigori’s protection.

The two departed side by side and ambled slowly down the hill in silence, neither one knowing what to say.

“How’re you holdin’ up?” Nishigori whispered at length, so low Phichit wasn’t sure he’d even heard it.

He shrugged, “As well as can be expected, I guess, considering the whole town wants me dead and all,” his voice came out sturdy, but deadpan; a shade below sarcastic.

Nishigori growled, “Jackasses. The whole lot of them. Senseless, cowardly _jackasses_ ,”

Phichit snorted, “Woah, _language_ ,” he quipped, “You kiss your wife with that mouth?”

He hadn’t meant to say it; it just sort of slipped out. Humor had always been like a second language to Phichit, even in times like this.

Perhaps _especially_ in times like this.

He expected a reprimand, or a warning, or at the very least an eye-roll . . . but, to his incredible surprise, Nishigori started _laughing_ ; actually, genuinely laughing.

Then Phichit started laughing too; a sad, shaky thing, but it was laughter none the less.

He was still scared shitless, but the chuckles seemed to shake some of the cobwebs loose; upsetting the shadows and chasing out the nerves.

Slowly, The Village came into view.

“So . . . you gonna shackle me? Clap me in irons and all that?” Phichit postulated with a weak grin; a very dark joke indeed.

“No Phichit,” Nishigori drawled, “I am _not_ going to ‘ _clap you in irons_ ’,”

Phichit pouted. “Aw, you’re no fun,” he teased.

Nishigori laughed again, “Nah,” he agreed kindly, “I guess I’m not,”

And despite the terror and the shame and the fury, despite the worry and the guilt and the uncertainty of what tomorrow would bring, despite all the people who hated him and every tragedy that had befallen him, despite the fact that he was _literally_ on his way to jail at this very moment, _somehow_ , for the first time in a long time, Phichit felt just a little bit less alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Swiss German] Mein Herzli = My heart (Colloquial) (Term of Endearment)
> 
> [German] Wo zum Hölle warst du = Where the Hell have you been?/Where the Hell were you?
> 
> [Swiss German] Müsli = Little Mouse (Colloquial) (Term of Endearment)
> 
> [Swiss German] Schäri = Darling (Colloquial – derived from the French word “chérie”) 
> 
> [Swiss German] Mein Schätzli = My Little Treasure (Colloquial) (Term of Endearment)
> 
> [Züridüütsch (Zurich-Based Dialect of Swiss German)] Mein Ängeli = My Little Angel (Colloquial) (Term of Endearment)
> 
> [Züridüütsch (Zurich-Based Dialect of Swiss German)] Mein Sternli = My Little Star (Colloquial) (Term of Endearment)
> 
> [Züridüütsch (Zurich-Based Dialect of Swiss German)] Hasibärli = Little Bunny Bear (Colloquial) (Term of Endearment) (I thought this one was extra cute because the words “häsli” (little bunny) and “bärli” (little bear) are also common pet names, and “Hasibärli” just kinda smooshes them together.)
> 
> [Swiss German] Schnüggerli = Snuggle-bunny/Cuddle-muffin (Colloquial) (Term of Endearment used for a lover, more specifically a “Cuddle Buddy”)
> 
> [German] Ja = Yes/Ya
> 
> [Russian] Lyubov Moya = любовь моя = My Love
> 
> [Japanese] Okāsan = お母さん= Mom
> 
> [Japanese] Otōsan = お父さん= Dad 
> 
> [Japanese] Ojīsan = お祖父さん= Grandfather


	10. The Invitation, The Atlas & The Warrant: Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night is for dreaming of things yet to come; but what will tomorrow bring?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Friends! Part 3 of The Invitation, The Atlas & The Warrant is here!
> 
> Next up: The Winter Celebration Ball!!!
> 
> So, fair warning, I'm not sure how long it'll be before the next chapter is up. I'm hoping to have it done in the next couple weeks - or by the end of the month and the very latest *fingers crossed*. But this next part is a BIG ONE, and I want to make sure I get everything just right, so I may give myself some extra time for editing :)
> 
> Thanks so much for all your lovely comments and kudos and shares and likes and up-votes and etc!!! They always make my day :D
> 
> As always, find more on Tumblr @silverscribblesuniverse (One day I will learn how to make hyper-links on AO3, but today is not that day)
> 
> TECHNICAL NOTES:
> 
> If you see anything weird in my translations, let me know and I'll fix it! FIND TRANSLATIONS IN THE 'END NOTES'
> 
> Also, a shout-out to all you lutfisk fans in the crowd! (It's actually tastier than it sounds, haha)
> 
> ***CONTENT WARNINGS
> 
> LANGUAGE AND/OR VIOLENCE - This Chapter Contains Strong Language, Coercion & Threats of Violence.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MENTIONS OF SEX AND SEXUAL INNUENDO.
> 
> ***A NOTE ABOUT NON-CON/DUB-CON:
> 
> As previously noted - this work involves themes regarding unwanted romantic/sexual advances and the rejection of personal autonomy. These themes can be a sensitive subject for many, so please proceed with caution.

**The Mariner’s Practical Atlas – 3rd Edition**

**Page 102, “Provincial History”**

 

_. . . At the cessation of the Seafarer’s War, the victorious Mountain Region gifted the contested Province to The Northern Territories; their strongest ally, whose forces had turned the tide of the decades-long conflict in their favor . . ._

_. . . this was a great boon to the Northerners, who until this point had no direct access to the coast . . . the result was a cultural and economic upswing, which drastically changed the landscape of the one-time isolationist state. To this day, The Northern Territories continue to thrive as a cultural mosaic . . ._

 

**The Mariner’s Practical Atlas – 3rd Edition**

**Page 103, “Places of Note”**

 

_. . . Queen Svetlana Nikiforov, The Radiant Heart, First of her Name and Ruler of The North, immediately began construction on a grand estate in the newly acquired Province to solidify the Northern claim. However, construction halted halfway through the project, owing to a number of factors . . ._

_. . . The castle remained abandoned until mere years ago, when Prince Ilya Nikiforov, The Beacon of The North, Third of his Name and Heir to The Northern Throne resumed the ambitious project. Rumors swirled around the Prince’s motivations for restoring Nikiforov Manor, though most agree that the largest factor was his bride-to-be; Princess Wilhelmine von Eis, the fifth and youngest Daughter of the Mountains. The Lady’s poor health was no secret, and it has been postulated that the sea air may have eased her breathing pains . . ._

_. . . with the recent passing of Prince Ilya’s father, King Ilya Nikiforov, The Hand of Light, Second of his Name and Ruler of The North, the future of Nikiforov Manor remains uncertain. The newly crowned King Ilya, Third of his Name, has since returned to the State Palace in The Northern Territories’ Capitol City, and it is believed unlikely that he will return to Nikiforov Manor with any permanence; especially given the sudden loss of his wife, Princess Wilhelmine, who succumbed during childbirth. Many speculate that Nikiforov Manor will now pass to the young Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov, only son and heir to King Ilya – an infant at the time of this writing. Though charge of the Castle will certainly fall to the Prince’s custodians until he comes of age, it remains to be seen if the young master will continue to reside there, or if he will rejoin his father in The Capitol once he is grown enough to hazard the journey . . ._

 

*****

 

Yuuri shivered in the brisk night air.

The sky was beautiful; the moon was almost full and the stars had come out to play, glittering in their constellations.

It was the warmest evening Yuuri could remember since arriving at the castle, and he’d taken the opportunity to stargaze.

What he wouldn’t give to have this view every night.

A strange feeling percolated in Yuuri’s gut; something big and unnameable.

There wasn’t much more he could do to break the spell; he knew that. He just had to be here, to stay by Viktor’s side until everything was right again.

But, once Viktor broke the spell . . . what would that mean for them?

For Yuuri?

Would he have to go home? Back to the farm? Back to The Village? He certainly hoped not; even now, the prospect of leaving the castle filled him with dread.

Going to market, feeding the chickens, weeding the garden . . . smiling at Villagers and avoiding rumors and dodging J.J.; that all seemed like a lifetime ago, and he didn’t miss any of it in the slightest.

Except Phichit and Minako, of course; he missed them so much it made his chest ache. He hoped they were still doing well . . .

But though he very dearly desired to see them again, the poor provincial town no longer felt like home. How could he possibly go back to that life after all he’d seen? After all he’d done? After knowing Viktor, and all the friends he’d made? How could he trade the sparkling company of the castle staff, for the derisive whispers of the townsfolk? How could he bring himself to sacrifice daily dancing for daily chores? How could he forget the wonders of Viktor’s castle and return to the tedium of the quaint little village?

So Yuuri held fast to his little flame of hope; that maybe the castle really could remain his home, even after the spell was broken. That maybe Phichit and Minako would come live here too and . . .

No . . . he was being selfish again; surely that was far too much to ask.

He had to face the reality; to accept it now so that it would hurt less later.

The spell would break and Viktor would move on with his life; whether Yuuri was a part of it or not.

But then . . . why throw the ball? Why mutter strange farewells in a language Yuuri could not speak? Why look at him the way he did; like Yuuri was the most wondrous thing in the world?

Why do any of that, when Yuuri would only have to leave?

Unless . . . he didn’t have to? Unless Viktor didn’t want him to?

“Just stay close to me,” that’s what Viktor had said . . . but the question was, ‘for how long’?

A soft rap on his chamber door drew him away from the stars.

“Come in!” he called softly, hoping not to wake Georgi; though he doubted even the end of the world would rouse the sleeping wardrobe now. He had completely worn himself out during their little fashion show this afternoon.

Yuuri heard nothing, not the click of the door, or footfalls across the floor. He turned to see if his visitor had heard him.

He jumped, finding Masumi on the balcony beside him.

“Ah! My apologies Yuuri,” the feather duster greeted, “I didn’t mean to startle you!”

“No, no,” Yuuri smiled, “it’s alright. What brings you by, Masumi?”

Truth be told, Yuuri hadn’t spoken to the Head Butler all that often; not one-on-one like this, anyway. But he had to admit that he was rather frond of Masumi, with his patient disposition and easy friendship.

Masumi pondered a moment, looking for the words, “Pardon my intrusion, Yuuri, but . . . I just wanted to see how you were doing,”

Yuuri smiled, “That’s very kind of you. But honestly, I’m doing just fine. Why? Did someone say I wasn’t?”

The feather duster relaxed ever-so-slightly, “no, nothing like that,” he replied, gazing up at the stars himself, “I just thought . . . well, forgive the assumption, but I believe we’re a lot alike . . . in some ways. I just know that if it were _me_ in your shoes . . . I imagine I’d be feeling a bit . . .”

“Overwhelmed?” Yuuri offered sheepishly.

Masumi nodded, “Ja. Overwhelmed,” he agreed quietly, “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at . . . this. But I wanted to come by. Just in case,”

“I appreciate it,” Yuuri replied softly, leaning forward on the balcony with his arms cushioned beneath him, “Care to join me?”

Masumi considered the offer for a moment, then nodded and moved closer, perching safely atop the wide stone ledge in order to meet Yuuri’s height. For a few beautiful minutes, they stayed just like that, stargazing wordlessly in comfortable companionship.

“Masumi . . .” Yuuri ventured at last, his ruminations making him bold, “can I ask you something? Personal?”

“Certainly,” Masumi allowed, looking back to Yuuri with open fondness.

“How did you know when you were in love? With Chris? How could you tell, I mean?”

A smile bloomed to life on Masumi’s face; his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“In a romantic mood this evening, are we, Master Katsuki?” he teased.

Yuuri flushed, “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, I –”

“It’s quite alright, Yuuri,” Masumi assured with a knowing smile, “I will warn you however, that it’s a very long tale . . . and a bizzare one at that,”

Yuuri shrugged, “I’ve got time,” he offered kindly, infinitely grateful that Masumi had dropped his own line of questioning.

A gentle breeze chilled the air, rippling through both Yuuri’s bangs and Masumi’s feathers.

“Would you believe –” Masumi began after a moment, “that I used to hate Christophe Giacometti more than anyone else in the world?”

Yuuri snorted, “I would _not_ ,” he asserted playfully; an invitation for Masumi to continue.

“It’s true!” The feather duster insisted, “Mercy, the number of times I’ve wanted to kill that man . . .” he shook his head with an exasperated sigh.

“In any case,” he continued, “It all started years before the spell. I won’t bore you with the specifics, but there was a time when I acted as both Head Butler _and_ Maître D’ to this castle. Some of the duties are similar, you see, so when our former Maître D’ was relieved of his position . . .”

“You stepped in,” Yuuri finished.

“Exactly,” Masumi confirmed, “But despite the initial upheaval, it actually worked out quite well. It was a lot of long hours on my part, mind you, but within the year, I had this place running like clockwork,”

“Ah . . .” Yuuri mused, suddenly understanding, “and then they hired Chris,”

Masumi chuckled, “And then they hired _Chris_ ,” he confirmed, “the transition was _not_ smooth, to say the least. Back then, I wasn’t nearly as _lackadaisical_ as I am now . . . and you know how stubborn Chris can be”

Yuuri just hummed and nodded.

Chris? Stubborn? Now, _that_ was the understatement of the year; almost as unbelievable as Masumi deciding to describe himself as ‘lackadaisical’.

The Butler continued his tale, “It was chaos, as you can imagine. Our little feud got so out of hand that by the end of it, we had actually resorted to sabotage in an effort to get one another fired,”

Yuuri’s eyes went wide, “So . . . what happened?”

Masumi didn’t reply right away, but laughed to himself, rolling his eyes at the memory.

“One night, I returned to my room . . . only to find Chris waiting there for me . . . _shirtless_ ,”

The tips of Yuuri’s ears flushed red, “I . . . oh. Wow. Okay. Yup. That . . . that sounds like Chris, alright,” he swallowed hard, amusement and embarrassment warring in his mind, “so then . . . after _that_ , you two –?”

“Fell in love?” Masumi answered, “No. Not in the slightest. We _did_ make some questionable choices that night . . . but we didn’t fall in love. Or at least, I didn’t. Chris might tell you differently.”

“So . . .” Yuuri hedged, “When did you?”

“Hmmm,” Masumi pondered, “Probably . . . right after I got him fired?”

“Wait. You got Chris fired?” Yuuri puzzled, “But weren’t you two . . . um, I thought you were ‘together’ at that point? Or –?”

“We were, every so often,” Masumi allowed, “It was a confusing time, Yuuri. One minute we’d be cussing each other out in the kitchen, the next, we’d be whispering sweet nothings in the bedroom. Walking that thin line between rivalry and romance was, frankly, a nightmare,” he frowned out at the starry sky, remembering.

“So then, you got him fired?” Yuuri prompted gently.

“I did,” Masumi confessed, “in retaliation for whatever ridiculous stunt he had pulled that day. Don’t get me wrong, I took no joy in doing it; but in my mind, I didn’t have a choice. We couldn’t keep carrying on like we were. Neither of us could. I had feelings for Chris, sure, and perhaps he felt something for me as well; but I wasn’t about take a chance on him and find out. I also couldn’t just let him take over and watch all my hard work go to waste, could I? In a way, I thought that going back to normal would be better of all of us,”

“I was wrong, of course,” Masumi added with a little smile, “and thank mercy I realized it in time,”

“That you were in love?” Yuuri ventured.

“No,” Masumi grinned, “that I had a choice,”

Yuuri narrowed his eyes pensively, trying to follow the twisting tale, “You’ve lost me,” he confessed bluntly.

So, Masumi elaborated, “Chris had always been my adversary. He was arrogant and brash and childish . . . and in my mind, that was all he’d ever be. But somewhere along the line, between the arguments and the love-making and the sabotage, _something_ had changed. Suddenly, Chris was more than just a rival. He mattered to me. He was still the most vexing man I’d ever met . . . but he was also sweet and earnest and fun and bright . . . and I cared about him. Things between us had always been confusing, and even painful, but . . . when Chris was fired, I finally realized that life with him really hadn’t needed to be that way. We _chose_ to make it that way with our pride and our pettiness.

It almost ended there . . . but thankfully, we each still had one more choice to make. We could choose to give up and go our separate ways, or we could choose to try again and make our future something _good_ this time; something better than our past”.

Yuuri tilted his chin in polite inquiry.

“In the end,” Masumi reiterated, “I chose him and he chose me. Though, I'm certain you could have guessed that,"

Yuuri smiled, “Well, I’m still glad it all worked out,” he offered kindly.

“So am I,” Masumi mused, “Being with Chris hasn’t always been easy . . . but even on our worst days, I still always choose him. I always choose to try,”

Finally the epiphany clicked into place, “and that’s how you knew you were in love,” Yuuri concluded thoughtfully.

“Mmm hmm,” Masumi affirmed with a little smirk, “There were some . . . growing pains . . . but our relationship expanded my horizons. It made me examine my life in a way I never had before. I had to adjust my expectations and re-evaluate my priorities, but regardless of anything else, Chris was always the most important thing to me; that’s how I knew that I was in love. Being with him challenged me, but it also brought out the best in me. My love for Chris . . . it changed me; and I wouldn’t have things any other way”

A reflective silence filled the little balcony as the confession drifted up to the stars.

Suddenly, Masumi seemed to come back to himself, slightly embarrassed, “ah! Sorry, I–I’ve been rambling. I’m probably not making any sense,”

“No, no,” Yuuri reassured gently, “You have been. Mostly,”

Masumi sighed, “Chris’s influence, I’m afraid. He’s always ‘encouraging’ me to share my thoughts more,” he explained sardonically, “I’m not normally so loquacious, but . . .”

“Love changes you?” Yuuri supplied knowingly.

“Mm Hmm. Thankfully, _some_ of us more than others,” Masumi concurred with a wry little grin.

“Pre-spell Masumi was really _that bad_?” Yuuri asked incredulously.

The feather duster laughed, “You mean, the man so narrow and uptight he became obsessed with trying to get Chris _fired_? And _succeeded_? Ja . . . he was quite the buzzkill,”

Yuuri laughed along with Masumi, “Point taken . . . but Chris didn’t _actually_ lose his job?” he objected kindly, “Or at least, he got it back eventually.”

Masumi’s smile turned sheepish and he flushed with embarrassment, “No, no. He wasn’t fired. The decision was reversed almost immediately . . . after I came clean and told Viktor everything, that is”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow, “ _everything?_ ”

“ _Everything_ ,” Masumi repeated emphatically, “Mercifully, Viktor let us both keep our jobs . . . on the condition that he never had to hear about _any of it_ ever again.”

“Wow . . . seems a bit harsh,” Yuuri snickered, “That doesn’t sound like Viktor at all,”

Masumi’s smile became warm once more, “Well . . . he’s changed quite a lot too,”

Yuuri cast the Butler a quizzical look, but Masumi didn’t notice, as he was too busy studying the sky. Yuuri gazed up as well, mulling over Masumi’s story; images of his own future rocking like little toy boats on a stormy sea. The moon was pleasant company as they kept their silent vigil.

“Hey, Masumi . . .”

“Yes?”

“Um. Can I ask you one more question?”

“Sure,” Masumi welcomed, turning towards Yuuri once again.

“How did you know . . . when Chris loved you back?”

“Easy,” Masumi chirped, “he stopped ‘ _accidentally_ ’ mislabelling everything in the store-room”

Yuuri let out a little chuckle, uncertain whether his question had been answered or not.

Masumi seemed to read his mind, “it’s not so difficult, Yuuri,” he murmured, “love, attraction, desire . . . those things just _happen_. The feelings either exist, or they don’t. You can’t force that part. So if you’re lucky enough to find someone who shares your feelings . . . all you have to do is embrace it. All you have to do is try”.  

Yuuri bit his lip and nodded.

That didn’t sound so scary. He could do that . . . he could try.

But could Viktor?

Would he even want to?

“Um,” Yuuri hedged quietly, his stomach churning, “and – and say, if, for example _you_ want to try, but, um . . . _someone else_ . . . doesn’t? H-How would you –?”

Yuuri cringed at his own words; ugh, he sounded so timid, so weak . . . like a damsel in distress or something.

Masumi raised an appraising eyebrow; his eyes glittering with wicked glee.

Yuuri’s heart jack-hammered.

Surely he didn't -  

Did he?

His stomach dropped, seeing the joy in Maumi's insightful expression. 

He knew.

Oh, Mercy, of course he knew! Everyone knew! It was _so embarrassingly obvious!_   There was no possible way Masumi could have missed it, with Yuuri always being so . . . ugh!!!

Yuuri’s face flushed red and he buried his head in his hands.

Masumi tried to suppress a little chuckle, “Well, _normally_ , in that situation, I would say that you have to respect the other person’s choices and move on . . .”

Yuuri groaned, praying death would take him soon.

“ _However_ ,” Masumi continued; his tone now utterly sincere, “in _this_  particular case . . . I don’t think that’s something you even have to worry about”.

Yuuri perked up ever-so-slightly, “You . . . you don’t?”

Masumi smiled, “There’s only one way to find out,” he answered cryptically.

Yuuri raised his head and took in a shaky breath, looking out across the starry sky once more

“And you know . . . you’ve always got us, right Yuuri?” Masumi offered quietly.

Yuuri turned to face him with sleepy eyes, and feather duster pressed on, “I’m certain that Chris would relish the opportunity to knock some sense into ‘ _Someone Else_ ’ . . . at your behest of course. If it were ever necessary”.

Masumi winked, and Yuuri let out a sheepish little laugh.

“Chris is the 'big scary guy' around here, then?” he teased sarcastically.

Masumi smirked, “Oh, don’t let those puppy-dog eyes fool you,” he cautioned, “Christophe Giacometti is a menace,”

Yuuri snorted, “Oh, I don’t know. He seems pretty harmless to me," he joked, "what’s the worst he could do?

Masumi laughed, “Trust me, Yuuri, you _don’t_ want to know,”

“Oh, but I _do_ ,” Yuuri wheedled; now actually curious in spite of himself.

“If you _really_ want to hear the lowest of it,” Masumi surrendered, “ask Chris about the _hilarious_ stunt he pulled about two months into his tenure here. The one with the lutfisk.”

Yuuri blinked, “What . . . what is lutfisk?”

Masumi turned and descended from the rail with another wicked smirk.

“Aged whitefish, jellied in lye. He used _seven_ barrels of it.”

Yuuri had to suppress a gag; Masumi just continued to grin, slowly strolling back inside.

“What did he possibly do with that much _jellied fish_?” Yuuri cried, spinning to face the feather duster; dread dripping from his every word.

Masumi cast a baleful glance back at him, “Oh Yuuri,” he sighed, “what _didn’t_ he do with it?”

Yuuri fixed the Butler with a horrified, wide-eyed stare.

But then Masumi was laughing again, and so was Yuuri; their voices echoing together under the stars.

“Speaking of my _darling beau_ ,” Masumi interjected whimsically, “It’s getting late, and I really shouldn’t leave him lonely. No telling what he’ll get up to if left to his own devices,”

Yuuri nodded, “Good Night, Masumi,” he bade with a little smile.

Masumi smiled back, “Mata ashita”

Surprise flickered briefly over Yuuri’s features, before shifting into a fond smile.

Honestly, he should have guessed sooner, given Masumi’s proclivity for languages . . . and his _name_ , obviously.

“So, are there any languages you _can’t_ speak?” Yuuri prodded; excited to hear his mother tongue.

Masumi gave a little shrug; or what Yuuri assumed was a shrug, given that the feather duster didn’t actually have shoulders, “My southern dialects are a bit rusty,” he allowed, aiming for modest, but landing right on the cusp of smug.

Yuuri smiled. “Tetsutate kurete arigatō” he murmured quietly, willing himself not to blush.

“Ie, ie” Masumi insisted, his tone genuinely humble now. He hesitated a moment, before tentatively adding, “Yuuri-kun nara dekimasu yo”.

Then, with a polite little nod, Masumi quickly retreated back inside, sporting a fond smile of his own.

Despite the evening chill, Yuuri felt wonderfully warm.

Maybe the castle wasn’t so different from home after all.

And . . . if even _Chris and Masumi_ could find happiness together, after all of the regrettable things they’d done, surely he and Viktor might at least have a shot? There was the spell to consider, and the future was incredibly uncertain, of course, but Yuuri was still willing to try.

The odds hadn't always been in their favor . . . but at least Viktor had never pulled any unspeakable pranks involving massive amounts of jellied fish.

Probably.

Yuuri turned his eyes skyward once more; eagerly anticipating the ball, and pondering what wonderful things might still be yet to come.

 

*****

 

Minako closed her eyes and took another deep breath, clutching her handkerchief over her heart.

Alright . . . focus.

V.N.

Viktor Nikiforov.

Crown Prince of The Northern Territories, Viktor Nikiforov.

That had to be him. Minako had done the math and the years added up; factoring in when the atlas was published, and the influence of the spell.

Prince Nikiforov. He was still there; in the castle _and_ her memories . . . now, if only she could find him.

_'Tick, tick, tick,’_

Her little mantle clock irked her out of her ruminations.

She growled, slapping the handkerchief down next to her on the little blue couch in frustration.

She’d come home not long after Nighigori had taken Phichit; after all, her place was far more comfortable, and there really wasn’t any reason to stay at the little farm all by herself.

Minako had spent the rest of the day combing through Yuuri’s atlas, hoping to jog her memory. She’d read it so many times, the pages had gone fuzzy.

And still, her memories remained trapped just below the surface of her consciousness.

It was like a mirage; something that glittered in the periphery of her vision, but disappeared the instant she tried to look at it directly.

It was night time now, and probably very late, if the dark cloudy sky beyond her window was any indication.

Minako frowned at the atlas; perhaps she should just go to bed and try again in the morning.

There was nothing more she could do; not until Phichit was released, anyway.

She still couldn’t believe he was actually in _jail_ ; not that she blamed Nishigori, of course. He was a good man in a tight spot; and it was better to keep Phichit safe and get The Captain on their side.

But those _people_ . . . those sanctimonious idiot villagers just looking for an excuse to paint the streets red . . . they sickened her.

And she could finally leave all of them – all of _this,_ behind – if only she could just remember.

She sighed, hoping that Yuuri and Viktor were having more success than she was.

Ha, ‘Viktor’.

It was strange to think his name so casually like that; ‘Viktor’.

Addressing him that way would have been the very height of impropriety under normal circumstances. Only the closest of friends would have had been allowed to call the Crown Prince by his given name; and even then, only in private.

But stranger still was thinking of Prince Nikiforov like that at all; like a friend.

Minako _should_ have felt scandalized using his given name so casually, even if only in her own head; but she didn’t feel wicked in the slightest. It actually felt . . . _normal_ ; which was odd, considering nothing about this was normal and she couldn’t even remember the man’s face.

She wondered if it was even possible for her and Viktor to have been friends; she couldn’t remember what her own rank and title was, if she even had one at all, and to hear Phichit tell it, 'The Beast' wasn’t particularly ‘personable’ . . . though Viktor could _hardly_ be blamed for his disposition during such a tragic –

Eyes.

Blue eyes.

Beautiful breathtaking blue eyes; like glaciers, like sea glass, like –

Minako shot straight up.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, come back!” she begged, squeezing her own eyes shut tight.

Damn it.

It was gone.

Shit.

Alright, what had she _just_ been thinking about? Viktor, obviously; Viktor and Yuuri and names and –

“Tap, tap, tap,”

Minako’s head snapped towards the door.

She steeled her gaze; at this late hour, there was only _one_ person it could be.

“Tutor? Are you home? We just want to talk, honest,”

Alright, _two_ people.

Minako sighed, “Fine. Come in if you must, Isabella,” she called, carefully closing the atlas and tucking it out of sight beneath her needlework.

She and Phichit had both known that this was inevitable; the hunters were bound to come for them, sooner or later. Though, unlike Phichit, Minako was not about to fight it.

No, she wouldn’t put up any resistance at all; _words_ had always been her strength, and that’s exactly what she was going to use.

Perhaps, if she played this just right, she could soothe the savage beasts.

The wooden door slowly swung open; J.J. and Isabella entered.

“Sit,” Minako beckoned calmly, nodding towards a couple of blue armchairs.

“You’re not gonna . . ?” Isabella hedged suspiciously.

Looks like J.J. was going to let Isabella to do the talking this time; smart boy.

Minako wondered how long that would last.

She tilted her head, ever so slightly, “Should I? You said you only wanted to talk,” she replied pointedly.

Isabella nodded her head ever-so-slightly; J.J. glared at the floor.

“Good,” Minako chirped, “I’d much prefer if my home remained standing at the end of this little visit,”

J.J.’s lip twitched in anger, “It’s was his _own fault_ –”

“It was an _accident_ ,” Isabella corrected sharply, “ _all three_ of us are responsible for what happened last night”

Minako raised an eyebrow as the hunters came forward slowly to sit; J.J. needing a little shove of ‘encouragement’ on the way.

“Fair enough,” Minako replied as they settled in, “shall I assume the two of you are _also_ responsible for Phichit’s recent incarceration, then?” her demeanor was welcoming, but her tone was all ice.

It didn’t take a genius to suss out what had happened; to figure out who had tipped off Captain Nishigori about the “angry mob”, if there even was one. But J.J. and Isabella didn’t need to know that today’s arrest was only for show.

J.J. slouched in the chair, one arm propped heavily on the armrest, a scowl on his face, “Just doing my civic duty,” he shrugged, “The Tinker’s a danger to himself and others,”

“Why?” Minako’s smile tilted in amusement, “because, ‘he burned down his own workshop’?”

 “No,” J.J. spat, “because he’s been fraternizing with an evil Beast . . . and _you’ve_ been helping him,”

Minako nodded thoughtfully, fully prepared for the accusation, “so then, what is it you came here for, exactly?”

She could have denied it, of course. She could have feigned ignorance, or conjured another lie; but there was no way J.J. was going to believe her, and more importantly, it would only make him mad. Provoking J.J.’s temper was definitely not part of the plan.

Plus, to be completely fair, the hunter _technically_ wasn’t wrong in his assessment.

Except for the “evil” part, of course; but Minako hoped to convince them otherwise, and she couldn’t very well do that if they were screaming in each other’s faces.

Isabella took a deep breath, trying to play nicey-nice like Minako, “We were hoping you could –”

“You tell me where that Beast is,” J.J. demanded, “so I can go kill it”

Looks like he wasn’t going to let Isabella do the talking after all; pity.

“Sorry, I’m afraid I can’t,” Minako replied simply.

“Look here you –”

“I _can’t_ ,” Minako interrupted sternly, “because _I don’t know_ where he is. Only Yuuri and Phichit do, and neither seem likely to tell you, given the circumstances,”

“Don’t you lie to me,” J.J. seethed; Isabella trained her eyes on him, like she would on a predator lurking in the brush.

“I’m not,” Minako insisted, “Sure, I may have glanced at the map a couple times. I know the general direction you want to go. I could make a guess, but –”

“Then do it,” J.J. ordered through gritted teeth.

Minako sighed; fine, if he really wanted to do it the hard way . . .

“About four leagues north, north-west of here through the woods,” She offered with a shrug, “I’m afraid I can’t give you anything more specific than that,”

J.J. looked ready to lunge; Isabella held him back with a hand to his chest and a shake of her head.

Minako narrowed her eyes in thought. Something was off here; there was a disconnect somewhere, she was certain of it. Somehow, J.J. and Isabella had gotten it into their heads that Viktor was ‘evil’. If she could just find out where that idea had come from, then maybe –

“May I ask –” Minako interjected calmly, “why you two are so intent on this mission of yours?”

“ _Why_? What do you mean, ‘ _why_ ’?” J.J. snarled, “That thing _abducted_ Yuuri! He’s in danger! We have to –”

“What on earth gave you that idea?” Minako retorted; her voice solid as steel, “Yuuri wasn’t _abducted_! He _chose_ to remain at the castle! He’s _perfectly_ safe with Vik–”

“The Tinker gave me the same song and dance,” J.J. seethed, rising to his feet, “how about you change the tune?”

A frosty stillness settled over Minako, “perhaps you should listen to the _whole_ song, before jumping to conclusions, J.J.,” she warned.

J.J. growled, towering over Minako, “Look, I’m not wasting my time on any more of your lies. I don’t know what the _Hell_ you people have gotten yourselves into, but –

“Wait a minute,” Minako objected, “You’re telling me that you don’t even know the whole story, and you’re still –?”

“You people brought a Monster to our doorstep!”

“We didn’t _bring_ him, J.J., he’s _always_ been there, and he’s never hurt a fly. He’s under this . . . spell, which has –”

“See! Messing around with hexes and stuff? I knew there was something _wrong_ with you people –”

“Alright. Just. Let me start from the beginning, then. A couple months ago, Phichit got lost on his way to the Summer Festival, and accidentally –”

“Sure. _Accidentally_. As if I believe that!”

“Would you just _listen_ to me? The Beast _isn’t_ dangerous, J.J., he saved Phi–”

“Saved Phichit’s life, I know! And now you people are indebted to him! To that _Monster_. To that _thing_ ,” J.J. seethed, “You may have sacrificed Yuuri for your own evil purposes, but _I won’t rest_ until he’s safely back home. I’m going to rescue him, I’m going to kill that Beast and I’m going to save our town. You know I’ll find them – one way or another, I’ll find them – so if you’re smart, you’ll stop wasting my time and tell me what I want to know,”

Minako narrowed her eyes; apparently negotiating was off the table.

What could she even say to that? J.J. was so hell-bent on his little rescue mission that he wouldn’t even give her a chance to –

Oh.

OH.

So _that’s_ what this was about; why hadn’t she seen it sooner?

Minako took a deep breath and heaved a great, audible sigh, brushing her long dark hair up out of her face; a gesture of indifference.

J.J. just fumed; her serenity throwing him off balance.

“Tell me!” He thundered, enraged by Minako’s silence.

“I already have,” Minako drawled, her tone dripping with boredom, “Yuuri is perfectly safe and this little quest of yours is completely unnecessary. But if your ego demands that you destroy yourself and everything around you because you want to play ‘hero’, then there’s really nothing I can do to stop you,”

The hunter froze, “I . . . _what_?”

“For the _millionth_ time,” Minako sighed, “Yuuri _isn’t_ in danger, J.J. . . . you just _want_ him to be,”

“That’s a lie!” J.J. roared, “I would never –”

“Hurt Yuuri?” Minako demanded, “And yet you badgered him, spied on him, harassed his friends, burned down his property and got his brother thrown in jail. Now, how’s all that working out for you, J.J.? Have you managed to sweep Yuuri off his feet yet?”

“You don’t know anything,” J.J. glowered suspiciously, “This is some kind of trick. Some sort of mind manipulation thing to protect your demon master! I’m not falling for it. I’m . . . I’m –”

“Going to go rescue Yuuri from the ‘terrible Beast’, and he’ll be so grateful that he forgets about all the awful things you’ve done and falls madly in love with you?” Minako snorted, “Good luck with that. Even if you do rush in and ‘save the day’, Yuuri still won’t love you back, J.J. - life doesn’t work like that. So you can either accept the truth and move on, or you can keep digging yourself into a hole. I mean, _honestly_ , at this point, the only way Yuuri would possibly marry you is by force –”

“I’ve heard enough,” The hunter seethed, “if the next words out of your mouth aren’t directions to that Castle, you’re going to be _very_ sorry,”

Minako rolled her eyes and kept her lips firmly sealed.

Well, so much for that; at least no one could say she didn’t try.

“Well, Tutor?” J.J. snapped, “I’m _waiting_!”

Minako looked directly into J.J.’s furious eyes, “You’re going to be waiting a very long time,”

J.J.’s face contorted with rage. His hand rose into the air, arm winding up; Minako braced for whatever was about to come.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Isabella hissed; her warning cut the silence like a cleaver.

J.J. glared back at the huntress, but dropped his arm, turning sharply and stalking away from Minako; pacing the little living room like a tiger in a cage.

“Alright,” J.J. hissed, trying to come up with a new angle, “Alright, alright, alright . . . I guess we’ll _all_ be waiting a very long time then, because I’m not leaving until you tell me how to get to that castle”. The energy in the room was electric; hysteria bubbling just beneath J.J.’s flimsy façade of control.

Minako suppressed a groan; mercy, the boy just didn’t know when to quit, did he? “Apologies, J.J.,” Minako replied, “I don’t entertain gentleman callers overnight. I only have the one bedroom, you see, and I do so hate it when the neighbors gossip,” her voice came out as smooth as silk.

J.J. stopped in his tracks, slowly turning towards her with a sickening grin.

“Well then,” he drawled, “I guess we’ll all just go to _my place_ ,”

Dread settled into Minako’s bones as she fought to keep the shock off her face.

Surely he wasn’t suggesting . . ?

Oh no.

This wasn’t the plan.

This wasn’t the plan at all.

“Yea,” J.J. crowed, his mental engine gathering steam, “Yea, I like the sound of that. You, me, and Isabella, all working together, side-by-side to save Yuuri,”

Minako stamped down her nerves, her face still strategically blank; she couldn’t panic and fall apart now, she needed to think, damn it!

Ok, new plan. She needed a new plan.

“I assume this will be a _prolonged_ stay,” She asked pointedly, stalling for time.

J.J. smirked victoriously, “Just until you decide to tell us how to get us to that castle. But don’t worry, Tutor, the room I’ve got for you is _lovely_ . . . downside is, it only locks from the outside. You know, quirks of an old house and all that,”

Minako swallowed hard.

 _Think, think, think, think_ –

Plan. Plan. What was the plan?

The plan was to get J.J. and Isabella out of here. The plan was to convince them to drop their fruitless pursuit. The plan was to wait for Phichit. The plan was to break the spell. The plan–  

No.

 _Remember_.

The plan was to _remember_.

Minako weighed the options; she could try to escape, try to make a run for it . . . but the hunters easily outmatched her, and even if she did manage to slip away, there was nowhere safe for her to go. They wouldn’t listen to reason, so she couldn’t talk her way of of this one either. But she could still break the spell; all she had to do was remember . . . and she could do that from _anywhere_.

As long as she had the atlas.

The situation wasn’t ideal, obviously, but there were worse options.

Someone would come looking for her eventually, right? Probably?

And after they found her prisoner in J.J.’s home, Phichit wouldn’t be the only one behind bars.

“What a charming invitation, J.J.,” Minako drawled sarcastically, making her decision.

“Well then, let’s go,” J.J. beckoned wickedly, “ladies’ first”

“What, you mean _now_?” Minako demanded, pretending to be scandalized, “I’m not an animal, J.J.! Surely you would allow a lady a few comforts –”

“Like what?” J.J. groaned.

“A change of clothes, for one. I’m not going to wear the same dress two days in a row. And a brush. Some make-up, a couple perfumes, a spare handkerchief. Honestly, were you raised in a barn? I only ask, because knowing _this_ backwater stink hole of a town, it’s _entirely_ possible,” Minako whined, layering the “stuck-up noblewoman” act on as thick as she possibly could.

J.J. looked like he was about to protest; like he was about to grab Minako and drag her out by her hair, but Isabella spoke first.

“Fine. One minute. Pack your stuff,”

Minako quirked her eyebrows in thanks, rose from the couch and drifted towards the bedroom to ‘gather her things’.

There was only one thing she needed of course; but they didn’t know that.

Over her shoulder, Minako could hear Isabella hissing at J.J., “What? It’ll look less suspicious if she has luggage with her,”

Minako hummed, impressed; perhaps Isabella wasn’t as dim as she'd thought.

J.J. _really_ should have let her do the talking.

Soon, Isabella was hovering behind her; inspecting the contents of her carpet bag as she packed.

At length, they emerged back into the sitting room; Minako gathered up a few more items in silence, stalling as long as possible.

She scooped up her needlework nonchalantly, and there, just beneath, was the atlas.

So close –

“Hey! Not that! You think I’m stupid?” J.J. snapped.

It took Minako a split second to realize that J.J. referred to the needlework, and not the book.

“Really now, what could I possibly do with this, J.J.?” Minako scoffed petulantly, flicking the 3-inch whale-bone sewing needle in his direction. It bounced harmlessly off his chest and tumbled to the floor.

“My house, my rules,” J.J. growled.

Minako groaned internally; perhaps she _should_ have made a run for it after all.

She scooped up the atlas, quickly stuffing it into her bag.

“What’s that?” J.J. snapped again.

Minako’s blood ran cold, her grip tightening on the book.

She cleared her throat and stood up as straight as possible; Mercy, she prayed this would work:

“It’s an _atlas_ , J.J., you know, a big book about the world with lots of pretty pictures in it? Honestly, I thought even _you_ would know that, dim though you are,” sarcasm and disdain dripped from every word. Minako hoped the hunters would be distracted by the insult, and fail to see her true intentions.

“I know what an atlas is!” J.J. huffed, “Why do you want it?”

“Well,” Minako answered patronizingly, “generally, people read books to help pass the time J.J., and something tells me that, for all its rustic charm, your very expensive home won’t actually be all that interesting,”

J.J. rolled his eyes and looked away. Minako thanked every mercy on earth that he hadn’t looked at the atlas more closely; or even remembered that atlas’ had _maps_ in them.

The hunter continued to pout as Minako latched her carpetbag, “You think you’re _so smart_ ,” he muttered peevishly.

“No,” Minako chirped brightly, “but, judging by the defensiveness in your tone, you certainly think I am. And that’s good enough for me,” She smiled her most condescending smile, the one she reserved for her particularly irritating students.

J.J. sputtered, but before he could respond, Minako was flouncing to the door, “shall we?” she invited, speaking only to Isabella, “If we stay much longer, J.J. might see my hatpin or my knitting needles and have an absolute _fit_ ,”

She yanked the door open venomously and stepped out into the street, her head held high, as always.

The three walked back towards J.J.’s two-story stonework house in silence, beneath the darkened sky. Butterflies fluttered in Minako’s stomach; she didn’t feel nearly as calm as she pretended to. Viktor was bewitched, Yuuri was gone, Phichit was in jail, and no one was likely to notice her absence any time soon.

But she was so close now; so close to remembering, so close to breaking the spell.

She had the image; the picture of them, safe and secure in her mind; a pair of dazzling arctic eyes. All she needed was the rest of the face.

She just hoped that it would be enough.

 

*****

 

“Mmmm . . . very handsome,” Chris purred, lounging on Viktor’s bed.

“Thank you” Viktor hummed, inspecting himself in the mirror; enchanted by the magic outfit which the castle had conjured for him.

He could still hardly believe it.

Chris laughed, “I meant the _suit_ , mon petit bichon,”

Viktor rolled his eyes and continued to preen.

“The Castle truly has outdone itself this time,” Chris opined, “have you _seen_ the veranda?”

Viktor nodded, “I have” he replied quietly, “I thought I might . . . out there,”

“Mmmm,” Chris purred again, the very picture of rapture, “Yuuri is a lucky man,”

Viktor felt the heat rush to his face; blushing beneath his silver fur.

“You think so?” Viktor mumbled, his claws nervously picking at his jacket buttons.

Chris sat up slowly, “Oh no . . . don’t you start –”

“I didn’t!” Viktor objected, “I’m not!”

“You’d better not,” Chris huffed, “I swear, Viktor Nikiforov, if you get cold feet now –”

“It’s not _cold feet_ ,” Viktor gasped, “I just meant . . . do you think it’s enough?” he gestured vaguely to the ethereal suit he wore.

Chris raised an eyebrow, leaning back on his sconces, “Viktor darling, if it were any more magical, you’d have hexes leaking out of your –”

“But it _is_ enough, right?”

Chris’ expression softened into a sympathetic smile, “You know Yuuri doesn’t care about that. Don’t fret about the suit or the ball or the spell, chéri. Just . . . be honest. And be yourself,”

Viktor sighed; that’s what he was afraid of.

It wasn’t that he doubted his feelings; or even Yuuri’s. It was just so . . .

“It’s just so big,” he admitted shyly.

He looked to the rose on the little iron side table. It was so red now; so full, so vibrant, so lush. Only three or four petals still remained frozen; and even those were not solid ice. No more than a gentle dusting of frost kissed the tip of each crimson petal; like the whole thing might thaw in seconds if Viktor only brought it into the sun. 

Beyond the rose, his balcony was dark and quiet; but not nearly as cold at it usually was.

It was never as cold as it used to be anymore; not with Yuuri here.

Viktor carefully began to unbutton the magic suit.

“It is,” Chris agreed, “tomorrow night, everything will change,”

Viktor swallowed hard and nodded; carefully hanging the enchanted jacket up in his wardrobe.

“But that’s not a bad thing,” Chris added hastily, “I’m just saying that . . . I think you’re ready,”

Viktor nodded again, and started on his shirt.

There was no telling what would happen once the spell was broken; all Viktor knew for certain was that he wanted to stay by Yuuri’s side forever.

What would it be like, he wondered, to see Yuuri though human eyes? To hold him with human hands? Kiss him with human lips?

And what of their future? Yuuri dreamt of being a dancer; of travelling the world and visiting The City. Would Viktor be able to do that? To give him those dreams? To live them right alongside him? Would Yuuri even welcome his company? Or would Viktor be right back where he started – a miserable, overworked Prince in a lonely frozen castle?

He had no idea how long it had been; no idea what had become of his kingdom or court. Did his father still live? Were there other heirs now? Was there still work to be done?

None of that had seemed important, not here in his private sanctuary of magic and ruin.

For the first time, Viktor realized that breaking the spell would only be half the battle.

“It’s strange. I’d almost gotten used to it,” he confessed, pulling his shirt off, “to my life being this way,”

Chris’s brow dipped ever-so-slightly, “So had I,” he agreed thoughtfully.

Viktor hung the shirt up beside the jacket, quickly swatting the static cling off his fur with a frown. He wandered over to his bed and sat beside Chris; the mattress dipping under his weight as he did so.

“But it’ll be better, won’t it?” Viktor queried. He realized that Chris had no way of knowing, of course, but he hoped the Maître D’ could at least offer some reassurance.

“Of course it will,” the Candelabra declared with a smirk, “nothing like an endless curse to make you appreciate the joys of employment,”

Viktor snorted, “But being human again, that’ll be nice, won’t it?”

“Yes,” Chris agreed, “it will be. No more magic castle, no more ageless prison, no more threats of doom and gloom blotting out our sunny days”

“No,” Viktor concurred, “no more magical quandaries . . . just the regular, ordinary, every-day human ones,”

Chris made a face, “Ugh. Work and finances and etiquette and _ageing_ ,” he moaned, “I can hardly wait,”

Viktor laughed, “Neither can I,”

“Well,” Chris sighed, flopping over to look at Viktor with an enormous smile, “here’s to the future”

“Yea. The future,” Viktor agreed wistfully.

“Enjoy the magic while it lasts, mon petit bichon,” Chris advised, rolling himself gracefully off of the bed, “as for me, there’s an incredibly handsome feather duster somewhere around here in desperate need of my attention. Bonne soirée, mon ami”

With a wink, Chris disappeared out into the hallway.

Viktor sat on the bed a moment more, contemplating the future he never thought he would have.

It hadn’t been a pleasant road to get here, of course, with all the doubts and fears and pains and heartaches. Even before the spell, Viktor had seen his fair share of follies and frustrations . . .

And yet, here he was; mere hours away from confessing his love to the most beautiful boy in the world.

Everything Viktor ever wanted . . . it was all so close now. And all he’d had to do was endure an endless curse to get there.

It seemed like a fair trade-off.

All those years of hate; now erased by the promise of the future.

Erased by the joy he found in Yuuri’s beautiful brown eyes. Erased by the warmth of every Katsudon they’d shared. Erased by Yuuri’s incredible dreams and wonderful tales and brilliant imagination; erased by Yuuri’s zest for life, born in the pages of his Ojīsan’s atlas. Erased by Yuuri’s grace and talent; erased by the steps which mirrored Minako’s so well, the steps which had carried him since the first branle he ever learned. Erased by Yuuri’s bravery and devotion, erased by the love he had for his family; for his younger brother, Phichit and his older sister, Mari.

The hatred, the hurting, the hopelessness; all erased by Yuuri’s own unfailing heart.

Viktor smiled and got ready for bed.

The future had never looked brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [German] Ja = Yes/Ya
> 
> [Japanese] Mata ashita = またあした = See you tomorrow
> 
> [Japanese] Tetsutate kurete arigatō = 手伝てくれてありがとう = Thank you for helping me
> 
> [Japanese] Ie ie = いえいえ = No, no (it was nothing/It’s no trouble). 
> 
> [Japanese] Yuuri-kun nara dekimasu yo = ユリ君なら出来ますよ = (literally) Yuuri can do it. 
> 
> More specifically, the sentiment “Kimi nara dekiru yo” means “if it is you, you will be able to do it”. So this is more along the lines of, “You can do it, Yuuri. I believe in you” or “Another person might not be able to do this, but I know that you can”. In this instance, I replaced “kimi” (“you”) with “Yuuri-kun” as it seemed like it might be more natural to use the person’s name. 
> 
> Also, I debated over whether to use “San” or “Kun” as the honorific here – I feel like at the beginning of the scene, they probably weren’t quite close enough for Masumi to use “Kun” (given that he can be a bit too formal/uptight), but they’ve known each other for a while now, and their heart-to heart really deepened their friendship – so in the end I decided that “Kun” might be more appropriate (but this is definitely the first time Masumi would have considered using it). 
> 
> [French] Mon Petit Bichon = My Little Dog/My Pet (Colloquial Term of Endearment)
> 
> [French] Chéri = Darling/Dear/Sweetheart (Colloquial Catch-All Term of Endearment) 
> 
> [French] Bonne Soirée, Mon Ami = Good Evening, My Friend. 
> 
> [Japanese] Ojīsan = お祖父さん= Grandfather


	11. Castles, Princes & Balls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams come true at the Winter Celebration Ball . . . but all is not as it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GREAT CAESAR'S GHOST!
> 
> Well, that took longer than expected . . . but it's FINALLY HERE! The Winter Celebration Ball!!! (AnD MoRe! *DuN DuN DuN*)
> 
> Also . . . we're almost at the end! I have 2 more full chapters planned out, plus a small interlude and a couple of one-offs for the epilogue (and maybe even some prequel Chris/Masumi spin-off stuff!). But be warned; the last 2 chapters are "BIG" like this one. It may be a while in between updates, or I might break them into smaller bits. 
> 
> As a quick side note, this is another chapter you may want to check the content warnings for. 
> 
> Thanks so much for all your lovely comments and kudos and shares and recs!!! They always make my day :D (There are a few I haven't gotten to yet because life is bonkers but I am ALWAYS so psyched to hear from you!!!)
> 
> Find more on Tumblr @silverscribblesuniverse - I'm currently working on a Map of the Village/Forest/Castle as a reference for the upcoming chapters!
> 
> TECHNICAL NOTES: If you see anything weird in my translations, let me know and I'll fix it!
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: 
> 
> ALCOHOL, LANGUAGE, MENTIONS OF FIRE, THREATS OF VIOLENCE & SEXUAL INNUENDO.
> 
> ***NON-CON/DUB-CON:
> 
> THIS IS THE ONE. This chapter contains NO SEXUAL ACTS (non-con/dub-con or otherwise) - but it does contain COERCION, EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION/BLACKMAIL, THREATS and THE REJECTION OF PERSONAL AUTONOMY. So please proceed with caution!

The world was a blur; a muted haze of glittering gold.

Yuuri’s fingers tugged nervously at the cuffs of the Midnight Blue frock coat; his breath shallow, his throat dry.

He wasn’t wearing his glasses.

He could feel them, however; tucked into the breast pocket of his waistcoat, the wire frames gently poking into plush satin.

Not for the first time, he wondered whether he should put them back on.

The anticipatory murmurs emanating from the ballroom had him itching to take a quick peek past the rich balcony curtains; but he didn’t dare.

No, he had an entrance to make; a grand one, apparently.

It was a great honor to be sure, but also the crux of his dilemma:

Wear his glasses, or risk falling down the grand staircase in front of a ballroom full of people?

And Viktor.

It was Mila and Sara who had cajoled him into going without in the first place; “just this once”, they had argued, “for the sake of the ensemble”.

The two ladies in waiting had styled him today; a spritz of perfume on his wrists, a dab of rouge on his lips, kohl thinly smudged across his lash line. His hair they had combed back, out of his eyes, slicked into place with petroleum jelly.

He had drawn the line at ceruse and pearl powder.

Despite his trepidation, Yuuri had to admit that the results were stunning; and in the end, he’d surrendered to a sightless evening in favour of fashion.

Perhaps it was vain, but looking as he did now, Yuuri could almost fool himself into believing that he actually belonged in a place like this.

Besides, he didn’t _really_ need his glasses if he was going to be dancing all night, anyway; they’d only get in the way.

 _And_ if his poor vision was a _convenient_ excuse to cling to the arm of a _certain_ nobleman all night, well then . . . that was just a happy coincidence.

Yuuri’s hand twitched up again, instinctively reaching for his frames, only to change his mind yet again and drop his hand back to his side.

His anxieties were nagging at him, mocking him and making him feel unbalanced; excited and terrified and a little bit nauseated and . . . dizzy, like he might tip over any moment.

His thoughts were echoed by a little horn at his side, “Ohhhh! It’s so exciting! It’s almost time!” Minami squealed with delight, bouncing around at Yuuri’s feet, “Uh, oh! You look _nervous_ , Yuuri! You _do_ remember how it all works right? We can go over it again if you want!”

Yuuri’s brow furrowed, but he spoke kindly, “No, Minami, I remember how it works . . . honestly, I’m just more worried about tripping down the stairs,”

They were lurking together on the second story, in the corridor leading to the ballroom balcony. The murmur of the crowd was growing louder in the stately room beyond.

Minami gave a fluttering honk, “Pfft, you? Trip? I doubt it!” he proclaimed, “Alright, so I go in first, I introduce you, you enter, walk to the center landing and wait. Then, I introduce Master Viktor, he comes down the other stairs, joins you on the landing –”

“And escorts me to the dance floor,” Yuuri finished, “I know, Minami”

They’d gone over the directions at least a thousand times already. Yuuri was beginning to suspect the repetition was more for the herald’s benefit than his own.

“Right. Of course you do. You’re . . . you!” Minami agreed proudly, "you'll do great!"

Yuuri smiled as his insides trembled. He had already jinxed himself, he was certain; unable to banish the image of himself crashing down the stairs like a fool.

He took a deep breath.

“It’s time!” Minami honked, causing Yuuri to jump.

Without further preamble, Minami darted out beyond Yuuri’s field of vision.

Yuuri swallowed hard. This was –

“Ba, Ba, Da, Ba, Ba, Ba, BAAAAAAAAAAA!”

– it.

“PRESENTING: Master Katsuki Yuuri,”

With a tense step, Yuuri emerged into the brightness of the ballroom.

Truthfully, that’s all it was; brightness. He couldn’t make out any details, just a slew of colliding colours and the outline of his own hand on the ornate marble rail. He vaguely sussed out the grandeur of the décor and the size of the crowd milling below.

Though, they weren’t really a _crowd_ , were they? They were his friends; candelabras and feather dusters and –

He reached the topmost stair and took a gentle step down.

His foot landed firmly on the marble below.

Yuuri let out a sigh and lifted his head; so far so good.

Hushed murmurs accompanied him as he carefully picked his way down the stairs to the center landing.

At last he had made it, coming to a stand-still on the elegant platform.

The hard part was over; now, he would have Viktor to guide him the rest of the evening.

Yuuri’s heart pounded all over again just thinking about it; so rapidly that he barely registered the sound of Minami’s voice.

“Escorted by his Royal Highness, Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov, The Living Legend of the North, First of his Name and Heir to the Northern Throne,”

With a jolt, Yuuri’s eyes snapped to the top of the opposite staircase; only to be greeted by a pink and silver blur.

Muted gasps suffused the air; Yuuri bit his lip.

Breathe. Be still. Stand Tall. Be Poised. Breathe. Brea –

Oh, screw it.

Yuuri’s hands fumbled quickly under his jacket, wrestling his glasses free and sliding them quickly onto his face.

There.

Much bett – Oh.

OH.

Viktor was . . . he looked . . .

Yuuri straightened up instinctively, desperately trying to pick his jaw up off the floor with what little dignity he could still muster.

Viktor was coming towards him now, regally sweeping down the –

Wait.

Prince?

Had Minami said . . . “ _Prince_ ”?

Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov, something, something of the North?

First of His Name?

 _Heir to the Northern Throne_?

So – so, Viktor was . . ?

The Crown Prince smiled as he drew closer, smug and flirty and unabashedly pleased with the reaction he had produced.

Yuuri finally came back to himself when he felt the gentle brush of Viktor’s paws against his own hands. His Prince cradled them, drawing them close to his broad chest.

“Yuuri . . . you look absolutely stunning,” Viktor whispered sweetly, before gracefully turning to offer his arm.

Yuuri blushed immediately, struggling to find his voice and remember the etiquette which Lilia had so painstakingly drilled into him, “And you. So do you. Also.”

He groaned internally, but dutifully linked his arm in Viktor’s. The Prince only continued to smile as he led them down to the dance floor.

With his arm securely in Viktor’s, Yuuri relaxed ever-so-slightly.

It really wasn’t fair, he decided, for Viktor to make such a radiant entrance with so little warning.

Because he was; radiant, that is. There was no other word for it. Viktor seemed almost angelic, adorned in his fine formal wear and wreathed in his surprisingly impressive title.

He was clad in a shimmering tail coat of gradient pink; a light blush colour at the shoulders, which faded into a deep magenta near the hem. It sparkled in the light; a billion brilliant little sequins dancing across the canvas of the coat; as if it were woven from a starry sunset. Looping gold epaulettes embellished the shoulders, and dangling golden fasteners glinted under the light of a hundred chandeliers. Dark plum coloured embellishments ran down the front of the coat; a twisting design of elegant ribbons on either side of the opening. Beneath was a simple white shirt of fine silk, with a deep, open V-neck and starched collar, paired with elegant black satin breeches.

Everything about Viktor seemed to glow, from his eyes to his clothes to his smile. His luxurious mane had been tied back with a simple black ribbon, and little twin braids had been woven in on either side. A sweet, sugary perfume, like vanilla and honey, wafted over Yuuri.

Viktor, it seemed, had been styled even more thoroughly than he had.

They settled near the bottom of the stairs, reluctantly releasing one another to take up their positions. They were joined by two other couples for the opening dance; Chris and Masumi, and Mila and Sara.

Without warning, the band struck the first chord of the Branle.

Yuuri had hoped to savor the moment, to prepare for it properly; but Viktor was already bowing, and now was no time to hesitate.

Luckily, Yuuri’s skill didn’t fail him; he fell into step easily, despite his racing thoughts and the incredible distraction which Viktor presented.

A thousand emotions all came and went abruptly; joy and excitement and wonderment and nerves desperately vying for his attention.

But none succeeded in tearing Yuuri's focus from his Prince; his anxieties smothered by the lightness of Viktor’s touch, the precision of his steps, the perfection of his form, the warmth of his smile, the sweep of his mane as he entered a turn.

The Branle plowed on smoothly, filled with repetitive steps which the dancers performed by rote; turns and claps and circular footwork repeating with every coda.

Yuuri couldn’t help but giggle as the others tried to keep pace with him and Victor; though the enchanted staff members were at a distinct disadvantage, lacking either legs or arms or both – resulting in more of a walk-through than an actual dance on their part.

Yuuri caught Viktor’s eye during a particularly tight pass; the two sharing a bemused smile at the unconventional opener.

Eventually, the final note was struck; the couples finished with another bow, and the ballroom erupted with cheers and laughter and bawdy applause.

Quickly clearing the dance floor, Yuuri stole a private moment to get his bearings; taking a good look around the ballroom as he did so.

It was like standing in the middle of a treasury. Everything had been polished to a shine; the floor, the stairs, the walls, the chandeliers, the windows; all gleaming like gold and glittering like diamonds. Plush white runners and tablecloths swept over every surface, fastened with centerpieces made of gilded lilies. The band stood proudly on the decorated dais, and on the opposite side of the room stood several banquet tables filled with savoury delights. One table had been reserved for refreshments; an impressive pyramid of champagne featured in the very center.

It seemed that everyone had been invited; the room was filled to the brim with staff, all laughing and dancing and gossiping and feasting. Through the crowd Yuuri could spot every one of his friends, picking them out easily amongst a sea of animated objects.

Beside the buffet, Yuri was talking animatedly with Otabek, though Yuuri wasn’t sure if the teacup was excited or furious; it was always so hard to tell with him.

Nikolai supervised the buffet, directing the servers to refill plates and glasses which had gotten low, and keeping half an eye on Makkachin.

The dog-stool had been dressed up too; each leg adorned with little ribbons and bells that jingled as she walked. She had wandered over to Mila and Sara, who were cooing over Minami as he regaled them with the tale of his great introduction – from only minutes prior.

Chris had tugged Masumi off the dance floor and into a very private looking alcove, while Yakov chaperoned from the sidelines; casting furtive glances at Lilia, who was pointedly ignoring him as she directed the band.

The only absentees were the staff who physically could not make it; like Georgi, upstairs in Yuuri’s chambers, and Michele and Emil, downstairs in the basement. 

It was wondrous and bittersweet, beautiful and melancholy; but as his friends cavorted in the chaos around him, Yuuri couldn’t help but smile.

In an instant, Viktor was at his side, “Well . . . what do you think?” he asked hesitantly, “Is it everything you always dreamed of?” The question came out hopeful, with just a hint of protective sarcasm.

Yuuri’s sweet little smile became a wide, wonderful grin.

“Better,” he confessed sincerely, looking up at Viktor.

“I’m glad,” Viktor smiled, so soft and splendid that Yuuri could only gawk in return, committing the perfect moment to memory.

“Yuuri,” Viktor spoke again, blunt and determined, “I . . . I wanted to tell you – to do something to show you how much –”

“ZING”

“How much I –”

“ZING, ZING”

“I –”

“ZING”

Viktor opened his mouth again, but there was no rest in the music this time; the next song spilling out across the ballroom in a sensual, rolling wave.

“ZING, zing-zing, ZING, zing-zing, ZING, zing-zing,”

A waltz.

Yuuri gazed up at Viktor eagerly, waiting for him to finish; but the Prince only shook his head, surrendering to the music and extending his paw in invitation. Yuuri took it gladly, following Viktor back onto the dance floor.

They again bowed to one another, pausing for an uncertain moment afterward as they figured out who would lead.

Yuuri quickly made his decision; elegantly lifting his left hand to rest near Viktor’s lapel. He couldn’t reach his Prince’s shoulder, after all.

As if on cue, Viktor met him halfway; gracefully extending his left paw for Yuuri to take in his other hand.

Electricity surged through Yuuri’s veins as he gently closed his fingers around Viktor’s; his breath hitched as a second paw slid gently into place around his waist.

Grounding him. Preparing him. Holding him.

In a breath, they were off.

Dancing with Viktor was like nothing Yuuri could have ever imagined; more satisfying than any solo, more wonderful than any dream, more enchanting than any magic.

The world fell away as they drifted over polished wood, the friction of doubt undone by the grace of their footfalls; twirling across the floor like snowflakes on the breeze. They danced as they had been built to, as they had been yearning to, as if the whole of human history had conspired to bring them to this exact moment; this one perfect meeting of music and movement and mirth.

The touch of their hands was like a circuit completed; their souls awakened, sending sparks of rapture singing through their veins, spurred on by twin heartbeats thrumming in time. Every step, every turn, every spin drew them further from themselves, forcing them each headlong into the depths of the other; pushing them beyond the brink of the familiar, to a place where logic and sense and duty gave way to hope and desire and passion.

Yuuri held nothing back.

Dancing with Viktor was so much more than choreography; so much more than pleasure or romance or longing; it was certain, unwavering, unyielding. It was firm beneath his feet and secure around his waist.

It was the boundless future that Yuuri had never before dared to wish for.

Eventually, as all good things must, their dance came to an end. Music slowed to a stop and fingers loosened their hold as each fought to catch their breath; their souls returning once more to separate bodies of flesh and bone.

Yuuri was grateful for the excuse of fatigue to disguise his flushing cheeks, “Viktor . . . I . . . um . . .”

His Prince’s eyes were intent, expressing everything he couldn’t say; silently begging Yuuri to continue.

“ZIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING”

Another song trilled through the ballroom.

With a smirk, Yuuri quickly swapped the position of their hands, wordlessly leading Viktor in their next exhilarating dance.

 

*****

 

They carried on that way to the point of exhaustion; dance after dance after dance until the strain of their feet and the sweat of their brows forced them to stop.

Reluctantly, Yuuri followed Viktor off, the two cooling down with an ambling stroll about the ballroom to converse.

But . . . everything felt _new_ somehow.

Different.

Unbridled adoration churned in Yuuri’s stomach, forcing his anxiety to surface once more; his panting breaths doing nothing to assist his failing witticisms.

“I’m having so much time. Fun. I mean. I’m having a wonderful _time_ , and this is so much _fun_ . . .”

“I can’t believe how well you dance! Not that I assumed you couldn’t! I knew you were good. Er, I _assumed_ were good, I mean. I guess. I’ve just never actually _seen_ you before –”

“Ugh, I’m so sweaty! Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean – sorry. I’m just a bit hot. This suit is gorgeous, but satin does _not_ breathe . . .” 

Yuuri groaned, thoroughly disappointed in himself.

Why couldn’t they just keep _dancing_?

Dancing was so much easier than _talking_.

With a teasing wink, Viktor excused himself to retrieve Yuuri a drink . . . in order to “help him cool down”.

Once his Prince was out of sight, Yuuri heaved a great, weary sigh; why was he _always_ such a flustered mess?

All the things he wanted to say; everything he’d ever wanted to ask . . . now was the perfect time. He knew that. He saw it clear as day, felt it in his very bones. The glittering backdrop practically screamed romance, if only Yuuri’s own traitorous thoughts would sort themselves out long enough to become words.

Good, useful, sense-making words, that is.

In minutes, Viktor returned with both a large glass of water and a flute of champagne.

“My first thought was to bring you water,” Viktor explained, a little awkward himself, “but then I thought you might like something more . . . celebratory? I know you don’t tend towards alcohol, so I can find something else if you –”

Yuuri’s eyes lit up.

Perfect.

Just one would be fine, right? Just to help him relax a little . . .

He wanted to remember tonight, after all.

“This is great. Thank you,” Yuuri assured, gracefully plucking the champagne out of Viktor’s paw.

Viktor raised an eyebrow, surprised, “A-are you _certain_? It’s no trouble to –”

“I’m certain,” Yuuri insisted, raising the glass to his lips.

Viktor smirked wickedly, “Alright then. I’ll start keeping track,” he teased, “only 15 more, and then you’re cut off, my good sir. I don’t think we’re prepared to find out what comes _after_ the shirtless dancers . . . not _tonight_ , at least,”

Yuuri bit his lip, both delighted and embarrassed.

No, despite Viktor’s goading, there would be no shenanigans tonight. Tonight was too important.

Yuuri slowly looked up at Viktor; being with his Prince had always felt so _natural_ – his company so _easy_. Even the unexpected rank and title, which should have had Yuuri quaking in his silk-damask rococo heels, did nothing to undermine his affections for the man.

Surely one drink would suffice for Yuuri to pluck up his courage?

He raised his glass in a cocky salute, and drained the whole flute in one go.

Viktor’s eyes went wide with something that was either admiration or alarm.

The champagne fizzed down Yuuri’s throat, leaving his mouth pleasantly sweet and a little bit tart.

“What now?” Yuuri chirped, exchanging the empty flute for the full glass of water; taking a small sip to ease the dryness of the champagne.

Viktor swallowed hard, taking a moment to think before he answered, “Something to eat, perhaps? Or w-we could see what the others have gotten up to,”

Yuuri nodded, slipping his free hand into Viktor’s paw; grinning from ear to ear as he gleefully tugged his Prince through the glittering crowd.

 

*****

 

Viktor swallowed hard as he gazed out over the dance floor; trying in vain to school his features and refrain from leering like a randy stable boy.

Giving Katsuki Yuuri champagne had either been the best idea he’d ever had . . . or the worst.

He still wasn’t quite sure which.

Yuuri was truly a vision to behold; luminescent as he smiled wide and cavorted about the dance floor. His footfalls were still captivating, but had become a little less precise with every subsequent flute, and his cheeks were stained with a carnation coloured blush; no doubt a result of the heat and the exertion and the alcohol thrumming through his veins.

And if Viktor’s affection for Yuuri had been undeniable before, now it was all but certain to swallow him whole; and frankly, he was perfectly content to let it.

At present, Yuuri was out on the floor, engaging in a lively contredanse. Viktor had begged off for a short moment of rest - unable to match Yuuri's endless stamina - and _somehow_ , the tipsy dancer had managed to cajole _Yuri Plisetsky_ into being his partner instead. Now, Yuuri was giggling with delight, tracing circles around the teacup as the kitchen boy furiously tried to outpace him.

And though Yuri growled and hopped about as if his life depended on it, it was obvious that he was having just as much fun.

Once again, Yuuri’s warmth and joy had drawn the whole castle to his side; his smile incandescent, his laugher infections, his light irresistible.

The last note faded out to raucous cheers, from dancers and spectators alike.

The night was beginning to wind down, the crowd shrinking like sand in an hour glass; but though they were fewer, their exuberance more than made up for their numbers.

“That was so fun! Thank you Yurio!” Yuuri cried, his elation drawing the attention of almost every eye in the room.

The teacup scoffed, “Just you wait until I’m human again, Katsudon!” he challenged, “then I’ll show you what REAL dancing looks like!”

“I liked _this_ dance though,” Yuuri insisted with a smile, swaying ever so slightly.

Laughter rose up around him as the others joined in on the teasing - Chris, Masumi, Mila, Sara, even _Otabek -_ all succumbing to Yuuri’s uninhibited frivolity.

Viktor smiled.

As the next song began, the little group began to dissipate; Yuuri waved a sleepy farewell as he drifted off the dance floor.

Viktor watched as Yuuri’s sparkling brown eyes scanned the ballroom, searching for something. His own deft paws unconsciously carried him closer, drawn to Yuuri like a moth to a flame.

“Looking for something, Solnyshko?” He teased, reaching the dancer’s side.

Yuuri’s eyes lit up instantly, growing wide with delight, “there you are!” he exclaimed, “Did you see Yurio dance? It was so cute!”

Viktor chucked, “I did,” he promised, “the two of you make quite a pair,”

“Mmm,” Yuuri hummed in agreement, his head lolling slightly to the side, “I’m really hot now though.” With an absent hand, he reached up to tug at the knot of his silk cravat.

It began to give way under surprisingly nimble fingers, and for a moment, Viktor could do nothing more than stare.

Suddenly coming to his senses, Viktor threw his paw forward to halt Yuuri’s ministrations, with a _very_ undignified squeak.

Truth be told, it was for his own sake, more than Yuuri's; much as Viktor might joke about shirtless dancers, if presented with the reality, he feared that the tenuous threads of his control might unravel entirely . . . and who knew where that would lead?

Slowly, Yuuri adopted a quizzical expression; turning it first down towards the cravat, then up towards Viktor’s eyes.

“Perhaps a turn about the veranda!” Viktor suggested, louder than he meant to, “That would cool you better, would it not, Yuuri?” He suavely maneuvered Yuuri’s hand into his own paw, politely holding it aloft, as if that had been his intention all along.

Yuuri smiled sheepishly and nodded, taking Viktor’s arm and gently leaning into him.

“A little tipsy, are we?” Viktor teased, trying to quell his own raging giddiness.

“No!” Yuuri objected petulantly, “I only had four . . . maybe five. So, yes. But just a little bit though, but . . . I’m more tired than anything. M’ gonna be sore tomorrow . . .”

As Yuuri rambled, a warm, fuzzy feeling filled Viktor’s chest; undoubtedly a result of the light radiating from the dancer’s own heart.

Arm in arm, they crossed the threshold of the great glass doors; the brassy glow of the ballroom surrendering to the blue embrace of night.

Viktor’s heart pounded as he escorted Yuuri out onto the veranda.

Behind his blue frames, the dancer's eyes went wide; his gaze wandering slowly over the ethereal embellishments.

It was nearly midnight now; silver moonlight glinted off the frosty vines of ivy, drenched the elegant bench of ice, and twinkled across the glassy candleholders glowing on the wall. Their entire world transformed into a glittering expanse of crystal and sapphire and pearl.

But Viktor hardly paid it any mind, as Yuuri’s eyes were sparkling, too; brighter and more beautiful than any magic he had ever seen.

They slowed as Yuuri caught sight of one of the arctic rose bushes; the frosty petals filled his eyes with wonder, but the sweet boy could find no words to express the depths of his amazement. Viktor did not dare break his awed silence, so the two kept on wordlessly.

Once he was satisfied that Yuuri had taken in the view, Viktor led them to the bench; it was large and sturdy with beautiful looping engravings, and someone had adorned it with a white fur blanket and a few navy throw pillows with silver tassels.

Viktor smiled, and beckoned Yuuri to sit.

They arranged themselves comfortably; Yuuri sliding in beside Viktor with almost practiced ease. The two gazed out over the frozen gardens in rapture, completely at ease in the sanctuary of ethereal night.

Viktor snuck a surreptitious glance down at his companion; Yuuri’s eyes still sparkled, but his head was pillowed sleepily against Viktor’s own arm.

And though a thousand thoughts scrambled for purchase in his mind, desperate to become words, Viktor surrendered to the silence of the perfect moment.

After all, what could he possibly say that would be better than this – just sitting here, cuddled up with Yuuri beneath the frozen moon?

A moment later, Yuuri shifted, adjusting his position to lean further in.

“Hey Viktor . . . why didn’t you ever tell me you were a Prince before?”

The question wasn’t accusatory, but it caught Viktor off guard all the same.

Yuuri . . . hadn’t known?

He’d discovered everything about the spell . . . but nothing of Viktor’s rank?

Still? After all this time?

Yuuri had never even asked him about it . . .

A thousand explanations sprang to Viktor’s mind; but only one held any weight.

“I . . . didn’t think it would matter to you,” he answered at last.

Though, perhaps the truth of it was that he hadn’t _wanted_ it to matter; that with Yuuri, he’d wanted only to be himself; to be _Viktor_ , and _not_ ‘Crown Prince Nikiforov’.

Unsurprisingly, Yuuri’s company had become far more valuable to him than any crown or title ever had been.

“Mnn . . . not to _me_ ,” Yuuri slurred, “I just . . . didn’t know. ‘Mm surprised,” 

Viktor smirked, trepidation melting into relief, “Surprised? Really? You mean the rigid etiquette and gaudy displays of wealth weren’t a dead giveaway?”

“I didn’t mean _that_ . . .” Yuuri whined.

Viktor’s heart lurched; even tipsy and tired like this, it was completely unfair how adorable Yuuri could be.

“I’m sorry, Solnyshko,” he apologized with a little chuckle, “You’re just so clever, I was certain you’d come across it in your research. It’s all in that genealogy you found . . .”

Yuuri bit his lip, flustered by the compliment, “There are a lot of ‘Viktors-s-s’ in your family, alright?” he mumbled sheepishly.

Viktor chuckled, though little butterflies of doubt still fluttered in his chest.

“You know it’s never been important . . . right, Yuuri?” he pressed cautiously, “I never – It doesn’t change anything,” his voice was pitched low.

Yuuri looked up again, out at the night; at the promenade and the maze and the blackness beyond, “But I’m just a – I’m not . . . you know,” he mumbled, “And . . . and it might not matter now . . . but it will, won’t it? After?”

Something inside Viktor prickled; a fragile thing, teetering on the edge of his ribs.

“Well . . .” He replied thoughtfully, “the advantage of being a Prince, Yuuri . . . is that I have final say on what ‘ _matters_ ’. In my own castle, at least,”

When Yuuri didn’t reply right away, Viktor worried that perhaps his meaning hadn’t been clear; but just then, Yuuri spoke up, his words a whisper in the winter sanctuary, “You want me to stay?” he asked hopefully.

Viktor’s breath caught, snagging on his ribs as the fragile thing in his chest quivered like cherry blossoms on the breeze.

He shifted around gently, turning to look right into Yuuri’s big beautiful brown eyes, “There’s nothing I want more, Yuuri,” Viktor confessed, struggling to speak around the lump forming in his throat.

Yuuri smiled up at him, “Mmm . . . that’s good. ‘Cause I want me to stay too,”

Viktor could only gawk, forcing himself to breathe as he rummaged through the mess of his mind for the perfect words; desperately trying to arrange them in a way that would be romantic – or even lucid – before allowing them to leave his muzzle.

Luckily for him, Yuuri rambled on, “I know you’ll have lots of important things to do, being a Prince and all” he murmured, looking away shyly, “but I . . . I was hoping we could maybe . . . still s-spend time together like this? And dance? You’re such a good dancer. And, if it’s ok . . . maybe Phichit could come visit? And Minako too? And you can say 'no' 'cause I know it’s a lot to ask . . . but I was thinking that, um . . . it might be nice to see the City Ballet together someday? If you want. You know, after we break the spell?”

With that, the fragile thing inside Viktor’s chest came tumbling down, pushed gently, almost imperceptibly over the brink by a few simple words. It hit the edge of his consciousness and shattered into a thousand pieces, flooding him with euphoria; a feeling so ardent and pure he couldn’t even speak.

 _True love_ , that’s what this feeling must be; this sweet, powerful rush of home and belonging and promise singing through his veins.

Yuuri had always been hopeful; his heart full to bursting with light and beauty and dreams.

But for him to _include_ Viktor in those dreams, without hesitation? For him to paint such a perfect picture of the future . . . a future of friends and family. A future of art and romance. A future of the two of them - together forever and so impossibly happy, despite all they had been through.

It was more than Viktor ever could have asked for.

The Prince was now well and truly speechless, his voice robbed by joy and hope and wonder in equal measure as tears welled in the corners of his eyes.

He felt a gentle shift, as Yuuri began to lean away. “I’m sorry,” he backpedaled blearily, eyes downcast “it’s – it was just a silly daydream. We don’t have to –”

“No!” Viktor yelped, a little too loudly, suddenly startled back to reality, “I – I want to! All of it!”

The dancer looked up at him again with heavy, hopeful eyes, “you do?”

The world stopped spinning and the stars aligned.

Viktor couldn’t contain his joy; rapture blooming into a wide smile across his muzzle. With one enormous paw, he reached up to caress Yuuri’s cheek, gently stroking it with the pad of his thumb. Yuuri didn’t pull away, but relaxed into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed with a sleepy smile.

 “Yuuri . . .” Viktor beamed, “your dreams are so beautiful . . . just like you are,”

He couldn’t stop the worship falling from his lips any more than he could stop the beating of his heart; not when Yuuri was sitting here so close to him, not when the moon was so bright and the world was so beautiful and the night was so wondrously serene.

Yuuri hummed happily, “Someday it won’t just be a dream,” he promised, “Someday we’ll make it happen,” 

And the certainty with which he said those words sent an unbidden ache rippling through Viktor’s chest.

Yuuri was looking back up at him now through his dark lashes; a shy smile on his sweet, kissable lips . . . and oh, Viktor had never hated his hideous muzzle more in his life than he did in that moment.

A snowy breeze gusted by the pair and Yuuri shivered despite his satin suit.

“Poor Yuuri – now you’re too cold!” Viktor teased sweetly, moving to stand and escort them back inside. But before he could go too far, Yuuri scooted in closer, draping Viktor’s heavy arm around his shoulders and tucking himself into the Princes’ side.

“It’s so pretty out here,” Yuuri explained with a pout, “just a little while longer? Would that be alright?” he craned his head upward to blink innocently at the beast beside him. 

And if Yuuri only knew half the things he did to Viktor with such casual looks and words and touches . . .

“Of course,” Viktor conceded with a small smile of his own, settling his arm more comfortably around the precious boy beside him.

Viktor thanked every single one of his lucky stars, as he held Yuuri there in his arms beneath the diamond sky.

Yuuri snuggled in closer to Viktor as they gazed out across the courtyard.

Viktor sighed; equal parts relief and rapture.

He had been such a coward to wait.

All this time spent worrying and stalling and making excuses; all this time spent thinking instead of doing, all this planning and scheming and wooing . . . and despite it all, Yuuri had beaten him to the punch once again, even tipsy and tired as he was.

The promise of their future made Viktor bold.

The spell had not quite broken, but surely he was close now? Surely one more confession would push it over the edge . . .

It was time. Time to be honest; to lay his soul on the line, to trust Yuuri with the depth of his feelings and the breadth of his devotion and the beating of his very heart. Time to declare his love; to announce it to the world, and prove to _everyone_ that Yuuri truly loved him back.

And, so resolved, Viktor chanced a glance downward.

“Yuuri . . . there’s something I-I’ve wanted to tell you . . . for a while now, but I –”

“Hmmm . . ?” Yuuri hummed. His eyes were closed; head pillowed against Viktor’s chest, glasses askew, lips slightly parted.

A genuine chuckle rippled through Viktor’s chest, “did you fall asleep, solnyshko?” he teased, trying not to jostle the boy too much with his laughter.

“No . . .” Yuuri denied petulantly, straightening up and carefully adjusting his glasses, “. . . ‘s just . . . resting my eyes . . .” he was blushing furiously.

Viktor loved that blush; he loved everything about Yuuri.

His resolve crumbled instantly under the sleepy gaze of those affectionate brown eyes.

It-it was probably best to _wait_ , right?

Wait, and let his poor Yuuri rest; the sweet, beautiful dancer was practically dead on his feet after all – and tipsy to boot.

There was no rush; tonight had been absolutely perfect, better than Viktor could have ever dreamed.

And besides, they had the rest of their lives to talk; to hold one another close and exchange sweet nothings beneath the stars.

“I . . . I think that, perhaps it’s time I got you to bed, Lyubov Moya,” Viktor suggested.

Surprise flickered across Yuuri’s features, before settling into sheepish understanding, “Right . . . _my_ bed, for _sleep_ ,” he murmured to himself, perhaps unaware he had said anything at all.

Heat rushed to Viktor’s cheeks, so he quickly cleared his throat and stood to assist Yuuri up and into the ballroom.

They padded slowly back inside, hand in hand. By now the festivities were nearly over; almost everyone had gone to bed, and the revelry was winding down. The band had been dismissed; Leo and Guang Hong now chatted happily with Minami, Mila and Sara, as Seung Gil played a solo piece for his own enjoyment. Lilia and Yakov were nowhere in sight; neither were Chris and Masumi. Makka dozed by the buffet as Nikolai directed the desserts to clear themselves up; Yuri and Otabek languidly assisted him.

The pair’s steps were slow and ambling, but aside from a few tired nods, they were left in peace to make their way up to bed.

Yuuri trailed sleepily behind Viktor through the corridor; happy and sated, his hand hanging limply in Viktor’s paw. At length, they came to the grand entryway; to the base of the massive staircase.

Without meaning to, Yuuri let out a little whine as he surveyed the seemingly insurmountable climb.

Viktor chuckled and deftly swept Yuuri up into his arms; in his beastly form, the boy was feather-light.

“You don’t have to –” Yuuri protested, even as he nuzzled contentedly into Viktor’s chest.

Viktor didn’t reply, just let Yuuri doze as he carefully brought him to his chamber, and laid him atop his bed.

It was dark inside; no candles were glowing to guide them, and there was little point in lighting one now. Yuuri moved automatically atop the covers, as if in a trance; removing his glasses and struggling out of his cravat. Viktor hesitated; but Yuuri was exhausted . . . and falling asleep fully clothed surely wouldn’t be comfortable?

Slowly, Viktor helped Yuuri shrug out of his jacket and waistcoat; then undid the buckles of Yuuri’s sleek black damask shoes.

“Mn, thank you, Viktor” Yuuri murmured, kicking them off and rolling beneath the covers.

He was now dressed only in his hose, breeches and shirt; still not the most comfortable ensemble for sleep . . . but Yuuri didn’t seem distressed by it, so Viktor didn’t push. Besides . . . helping him undress any further might be . . . inappropriate?

“G’night . . .” Yuuri mumbled, snuggling into the sky-blue pillows; eyes closed, voice slurred, two nods away from sleep.

Viktor smiled, “good night, lyubov moya,” he whispered fondly.

Satisfied that Yuuri was safe and comfortable, Viktor left him to his dreaming.

 

*****

 

Viktor returned to his own chambers in high spirits; mooning through the corridors, dancing up the marble steps and gliding across the polished floor.

Love. He was _in love_.

He had been in love with Yuuri for quite some time now, of course; but this was _different_ , somehow.

This feeling, it wasn’t just ‘love’ . . . it was _LOVE, love_.

 _True love_.

And he was certain Yuuri felt it too.

Viktor swept into his rooms with a sigh; how had he ever _lived_ without this? This wonderful, incredible, magical –

He stopped dead in his tracks.

The rose.

It had . . . thawed?

No . . . it couldn’t be.

If the rose had thawed, that meant – that meant he was supposed to be human again, right?

But he was still –

An unnecessary glance at his paws confirmed his fears.

Taking a deep breath, Viktor approached the enchanted flower.

Claws gripping the edges of the little iron side table, Viktor leaned in close to take a better look.

It was just as he’d suspected.

Every petal, every thorn, every sprig; the rose was now well and truly alive.

And yet . . . the spell remained intact.

Viktor took another deep breath, even as his insides quivered.

So, the rose had thawed and the spell hadn’t broken.

Well . . . so what?

That . . . that didn’t _prove_ anything, did it?

All it meant was that defrosting the rose had no effect on the spell.

That whole idea had only been a theory after all; who knew what type of mind games the enchantress had –?

No. No, it was fine. This was _fine_.

Perhaps it just meant something else; perhaps Viktor no longer had a time limit, or perhaps he finally _understood_ love and now needed only to _express_ it? To _say_ it? To ‘seal the deal’?

Whatever was going on, Viktor refused to let it ruin his mood.

Everything was _fine_.

No – _better_ than fine!

Everything was _perfect_.

The Ball had been _perfect_. _Yuuri_ was _perfect_ ; they were _in love_ , they were going to be together _forever_ , and _someday_ they would –

Well . . . someday, all their dreams would come true.

With one last scowl at the uncooperative artifact, Viktor got ready for bed; at long last wrapping himself up in his pale silk sheets and forcing his eyes shut.

It was only then that he realized how exhausted he was.

Though his heart fluttered in his chest, he forced himself to relax . . . and to remain hopeful.

Everything had changed tonight; of that, there could be no doubt.

Tomorrow morning, Viktor would to break the spell once and for all.

But not for himself.

For Yuuri.

And for “someday”.

 

*****

 

Yuuri woke up alone.

His eyes fluttered open lazily; sore and strained. He rubbed at them with a groan, pouting against the onslaught of brightness.

Everything hurt; his limbs felt stiff and heavy, his mouth as dry as a desert.

He started to sit up, slowly pushing himself upright on the bed, only to slide across the sheets instead.

It was then he realized he was still in his fancy suit.

Well, most of it.

Yuuri flopped back onto the mattress, shielding his eyes once more.

It was so bright; how late had he slept? Noon at least – or possibly even later?

Embarrassment sizzled through his veins, as he recalled the night previous; how bold he had been with Viktor, how shamelessly he’d allowed himself to be carried up to bed.

And damn if it hadn’t been the best night of his life.

Yuuri couldn’t help but smile at the memory.

Viktor wanted him here, wanted him to stay, wanted a future together.

Together _in the castle_ , at the very least; maybe even _together_ , together, if Yuuri’s tired mind did him any justice.

He really couldn’t have asked for more.

Bare hose slipped on silk sheets as he struggled to sit up once again, ignoring the throb in his head as he scrambled for his glasses.

The first thing he saw was his suit; the jacket and waistcoat gently draped across the plush teal sitting chair so as not to wrinkle.

Viktor must have put them there.

With a flutter in his chest, Yuuri shot out of bed. He snatched at the closest set of clean clothes and quickly changed.

He was at the door in an instant; suddenly halted by a low, amused voice.

“You may want to wash your face first,” Georgi advised kindly.

Startled, Yuuri whirled back to his vanity mirror, letting loose a sheepish little laugh.

The kohl around his eyes had smudged horribly, so had the rouge on his lips; but it was his hair which was the true cause for concern. He must have slept very restlessly indeed, as it now stuck up all over; a thousand little cowlicks, courtesy of the petroleum.

With Georgi’s counsel, Yuuri was soon fresh-faced and gel-free once again. The process took much longer than he would have liked; the cold creams and hair rinses almost ineffectual in his clumsy, hung-over hands.

Little wonder dressers and handmaidens had become so popular with the nobility.

At last, Yuuri was back to his normal self. He took off like a shot through the palace corridors, with little more than an absent “thank you” to Georgi as he thundered out into the hall.

He found himself almost immediately in front of Viktor’s parlour, managing to catch himself just before bursting into the room unannounced.

His excited knock was answered by a cheerful call to enter; one quick breath, then Yuuri popped inside.

Viktor looked nearly as tired as Yuuri felt, curled up lazily in his favourite magenta armchair with a book and a blanket; comfy and cozy and rumpled and . . . shirtless.

The Prince’s eyes went bright as they landed on Yuuri, “He lives!” Viktor teased, uncurling himself ever-so-slightly to welcome his guest.

“More lively than you,” Yuuri retorted playfully, ignoring a jab in his head as he plopped himself down on the plum coloured bench across from Viktor.

“Yuuri, be nice to me” the Prince whined, “I’m _old_ ”

“You are not,” Yuuri admonished, though he wasn’t entirely certain how true that was.

“Tell that to my aching paws,” Viktor joked, poking one furry foot out from the blanket to wiggle his black-clawed toes in protest.

Yuuri laughed, then bit his lip, blushing, “I’m sorry,” he apologised, more playful than contrite, “I ah . . . guess I got a bit ‘carried away’ last night,”

Viktor smiled, “I wouldn’t say that,” he objected sweetly, “everyone agrees it was the most fun they’ve had in ages. And personally . . . I had a wonderful time,”

“Me too,” Yuuri agreed, smiling right back.

“Well then, I’m glad that your first ball was a good one,” Viktor replied, his words so warm and genuine they sent little ripples of delight through Yuuri’s chest.

“And you . . .” Viktor continued, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, “Ah, remember –?”

“All of it,” Yuuri confirmed sheepishly, “thank you, by the way. For everything”.

Viktor grinned, “It was my sincerest pleasure, solnyshko. I . . . can’t wait for the next one,”

Yuuri couldn’t blush any harder, “the next one?” he prompted hopefully.

“Of course!” Viktor chirped, “I – I meant what I said last night. Every word –”

“I just . . . wanted to check,” Yuuri interjected quickly, “in case you may have . . . forgotten? Or changed your mind? About –?”

“Never,” Viktor pledged.

Yuuri smiled, “In that case . . . I can’t wait either,” he agreed.

They sat there a moment, both sporting shy grins.

“Um, but maybe . . .” Yuuri hedged, “maybe we could wait a bit before the next one, and have it when everyone is human again? So Georgi and Michele and Emil can be there? And . . . Phichit? And Minako too? If-if that’s still okay?”

Viktor beamed, “It’s _more_ than okay. I think it’s a _wonderful_ idea, Yuuri,” he agreed, “besides, I think poor Masumi deserves a bit of a reprieve – and, oh, you haven’t _lived_ until you’ve been to a ball with _thee_ Okukawa Minako –”

A little crease formed on Yuuri’s brow, disbelief damming up his river of happiness, “W-what?”

Viktor plowed on merrily, “Oh, don’t get the wrong idea. I mean, of course she would _indulge_ on occasion, like the rest of us, but I was talking about –”

“Wait. How –?” Yuuri interjected, confusion cluttering his words, “Have you –? Is this the same -? Are you saying that you and Minako have . . . _met_?”

Viktor’s brow furrowed in kind, “What are you talking about, Yuuri? I told y –”

He froze mid-sentence, his eyes growing wide in realization.

Epiphany instantly turned into frustration, “Bozhe moy, ya takaya idiotka!” Viktor groaned, burying his face in his paws, “I can’t believe I _forgot_ –”

“Forgot . . . what?” Yuuri ventured, still in the thick of his bewilderment and now incredibly concerned for his suddenly distraught Prince.

“Apologies, solnyshko,” Viktor said contritely, once more looking up at Yuuri, “I thought that I had told you. I _meant_ to tell you. A few days ago, before the ball, I-I was about to show you –” Viktor growled and shook his head, his mane fluttering wildly about his lupine face; ruffled and charged with static.

Still confused, Yuuri leaned forward and gently took Viktor’s paw; his Prince looked up at him slowly through the curtain of his silver locks.

He didn’t know _what_ had gotten into Viktor; all he knew was that the wanted to make it right again.

“Show me now?” Yuuri offered sweetly, trying to smile through his own bewilderment.

Viktor relaxed, casting Yuuri an apologetic smile. Then he brushed his mane out of his face and stood, not once releasing Yuuri’s hand.

“Thank you, Yuuri,” Viktor sighed gratefully, “Come . . . I think I left it in the library,”

 

*****

 

The Library’s sitting area was in complete disarray; disturbed chairs, scattered books . . . a sea of silent chaos, just as they had left it.

Viktor bustled about – having at last released Yuuri’s hand – frantically searching for . . .  _something_.

Yuuri hovered on the edges of the circular blue rug; scanning the library in an effort to help, but deciding that it was probably best to let Viktor lead.

After all, Yuuri's head still throbbed a bit, and he didn’t even know what they were looking for.

Whatever it was, it must be important to have thrown his Prince into such a tizzy.

Yuuri languidly traced the edges of the sitting area, absently scanning the room for anything ‘abnormal’. As he leaned over one of the chairs for a cursory glance, something sparkled in his periphery.

An exquisite silver hand mirror, intricately molded and glittering with crystals.

Yuuri was certain he recognized it – hadn’t Viktor been holding it that day? Before they had argued? Before Viktor had shown him the rose?

So what in the world –?

Yuuri carefully picked it up and examined it. At first glance, it didn’t really seem all that important; expensive, yes, but . . . _important_?

He slowly turned towards his companion. Viktor was currently on the tip-toes of his digitigrade feet, scouring the knick-knacks on the mantle above the fireplace.

Yuuri held the mirror aloft, “H-hey, Viktor?”

The Prince turned to reply; stopping dead in his tracks upon seeing the mirror. His tight expression gave Yuuri all the answer he needed.

Silently, they gravitated towards one another, meeting by the fireplace. Yuuri handed the mirror over wordlessly.

“It’s magic,” Viktor explained, “The enchantress left it behind. Another one of her ‘gifts’. It can show you anything you wish. Anything at all,”

“I . . . I see,” Yuuri replied hesitantly. While that certainly explained the mirror’s significance, it didn’t answer any of the questions still buzzing away in his brain.

Viktor opened his muzzle, but it was not to Yuuri that he spoke.

“Show me Okukawa Minako,” he commanded, gazing into the steely surface of the mirror. He turned it towards Yuuri.

A shimmering fog swirled across the glass, replacing Yuuri’s own reflection with an image of Minako; cross legged on a little bench, reading some sort of book. It was dark, wherever she was, but Yuuri couldn’t see much else of the room.

Strange.

Not the mirror – Yuuri had grown accustomed to almost all things magical by this point – but the fact that Minako was not at the Schoolhouse or Phichit’s Workshop, or even her own home; or if she was, she was down in her cellar, reading in the dark, which seemed a very strange thing to do indeed.

Although . . . Minako _did_ get headaches from being under sharp light . . . perhaps it was too bright upstairs?

“She used to live here. Before the spell,”

Viktor’s words smashed through the silence, ripping Yuuri right out of his ruminations.

“No . . . I . . . that’s not possible. Is it?” He shook his head slowly, a chill creeping up his spine.

It wasn’t that Yuuri doubted the truth of Viktor’s confession; there were just so many other thoughts echoing around inside his head, and none of them seemed solid enough to grasp.

“That’s what I had thought, as well,” Viktor confided, “that day, during dance practice – it was the first time you’d ever mentioned her name. I thought . . . I thought it was too good to be true. So I . . . checked,”

Yuuri’s eyes lifted from the mirror to Viktor’s own.

Well.

That certainly explained a lot.

“It’s her, Yuuri, the same Minako I once knew,” Viktor insisted, “I know it is,”

“I –” Yuuri began, trying to marshal his hopelessly scrambled thoughts, “You _knew_ her? And she used to –? It just seems – I mean, _how_? What happened?”

“She wasn’t here when the spell was cast,” Viktor elaborated, “She had been called back to her family’s estate rather suddenly. The enchantments made her forget about us . . . and she was never able to find her way back home,” Viktor paused, looking utterly devastated as he took a deep breath, “That’s all I know, Yuuri. To be honest . . . I was hoping you could fill in the rest?”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Yuuri murmured, grasping at straws, “This doesn’t make any sense. She . . . she told us that she was in the court of some Count. Count . . . ah, Count Rodney? Roderick? Ronaldo?”

“Count Rodrigo de la Rosa?” Viktor demanded incredulously.

“Yea!” Yuuri chirped, “That’s it! How did you –?”

Viktor’s expression softened instantly, “He’s not real, Yuuri,” he laughed, “He’s a character, from a book,”

Yuuri’s mouth hung open, “He . . . wha –?”

“One of those serial romances,” Viktor confirmed smugly, “He does all the usual things; righting wrongs, rescuing maidens and so on. The first book starts out with him vowing to clear the name of his lady love; his rival tries to ruin her by –”

“Planting a monogrammed handkerchief in her bedchamber?” Yuuri guessed flatly.

Viktor raised an eyebrow, “Y-yes. Exactly – I thought you hadn’t read it?”

“I haven’t,” Yuuri replied with a little chuckle of his own, “but Minako sure has . . .”

Viktor hummed thoughtfully, puzzling everything out, “they’re her favourite books, you know,” he mused, “always have been. I’m not surprised that she would take those stories and make them her own . . . in lieu of her real memories. It’s a _very_ popular series. I’m sure the books could be found anywhere – even in a village as small as yours”.

Yuuri nodded in agreement; Minako had dozens of romance novels on her shelves. It was no stretch to believe she might have re-discovered a forgotten favourite.

“You seem to know a lot about them,” Yuuri teased, as the swirling sediment of his confusion slowly settled, “is this ‘ _Count Roderigo_ ’ a favourite of _yours_ as well?”

“I –!” Viktor squeaked, “I may have read one . . . or two,” he allowed, “just to see what Minako was so excited about . . .”

“Mm hmm,” Yuuri smirked.

“Alright, alright,” Viktor surrendered with a pout, “she made me read the first one and after that, I was hooked. But, _I had to_ , Yuuri. She and I – I mean, we were . . . I-I was even closer to her back then than I am to _Chris_ now,” he let out a great, weary sigh, “Truth be told . . . she was the only _real_ friend I ever had. Before the spell, I mean . . .”

Viktor's tone had turned melancholic once more and Yuuri’s heart sank. He reached out comfortingly; but his Prince’s eyes were fixated on Minako, obliviously reading within the confines of the frame.

“H-how old is she now?” Viktor beseeched, his voice barely a whisper, “How long has it been?”

“Um,” Yuuri’s voice hitched, Viktor’s heartache seeping below his own skin, “F-fifty maybe? Fifty-one? I know she doesn’t look it but –”

Viktor’s eyes snapped up, running the calculations in his head.

“Twenty years,” he said numbly, “It’s been _twenty years_ since –”

He broke off sharply, swallowing hard and squeezing his eyes shut.

Yuuri said nothing, just rubbed soothing circles across the silky fur of Viktor’s back, as his Prince processed the heartbreaking new information.

To be honest, Yuuri wasn’t even certain that _he_ could fathom it all.

 _Twent_ y years . . .

Twenty long, lonely years Viktor had been trapped here in his castle . . . forgotten by the person he’d cared about most in the world.

After a long minute, Viktor blinked his eyes open again.

“Is she happy?” He asked. His voice was still suffused with sorrow, but the words came out steady and strong.

“Yes,” Yuuri replied automatically, “Well, as happy as she can be, I suppose. She’s not really . . . erm . . . _fond_ of the country. Or The Village.”

“No,” Viktor agreed with a sad little smile, “No, I suppose she wouldn’t be”.

“She misses you,” Yuuri said, again automatically, “I mean, she may not _remember_ that it’s _you_ that she misses, but, ah, she misses . . . being here? She, um, always talked about how much she loved court, h-how much she wanted to go home . . . although, now that I think about it, I don’t think she ever actually said _why_ she couldn’t – ”

Viktor blinked slowly, nodding his great silver head absently.

“I’m sorry!” Yuuri squeaked, “I didn’t mean to upset you! I shouldn’t have said anything, I’m rambl–”

In an instant, Viktor’s arms were around him, pulling him in to a crushing embrace.

“Thank you,” his Prince whispered, holding ever tighter.

Yuuri returned the hug; silver mirror fisted awkwardly in his hand as he reached around Viktor’s substantial frame.

At length, Viktor released him. He reached out with one massive paw, gently pushing Yuuri’s bangs out of his eyes; a sweet, doting gesture.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you all this sooner, Yuuri. I wanted to. I _tried_ to, but then we had our little quarrel and then I was planning the Ball and I –” Viktor stopped short, taking a deep breath before continuing, “But my excuses aren’t important,” he declared, his voice steady and confident once more, “These last few years . . . these last few _weeks_ , can’t have been easy for her either. Or Phichit. Or you. All that matters now is breaking the spell . . . so we can all be together again,”

Yuuri nodded emphatically; and if Viktor noticed how he had choked up upon hearing those words, he was kind enough not to say anything.

“Speaking of . . . would it be alright if I –?” Yuuri asked hesitantly, gesturing out with the mirror.

“Please,” Viktor invited, knowing exactly what Yuuri would ask of it.

Yuuri smiled and slowly raised the looking-glass to eye-level, “I-I’d like to see my brother – Phichit Chulanont. If you please . . .”

Magical fog swirled across the mirror’s surface once again; but Yuuri found no comfort in the image which greeted him.

No.

 _No_.

This wasn’t – something wasn’t right here.

“Yuuri?” Viktor’s concerned voice echoed somewhere far away, “Yuuri, what’s wrong?”

Yuuri swallowed hard.

He tried to reply, really he did. His mouth opened, his lips moved, but no sound came out.

No.

No. This . . . this wasn’t possible.

Wordlessly, Yuuri turned the mirror towards Viktor.

In an instant, Viktor’s horrified expression matched his own.

Yuuri could feel himself slipping, starting to shake, starting to blank out.

This was how it always started; soon he would be a useless, panicking heap.

No.

No. focus.

“W-why is he in jail?” Yuuri’s quivering lip rattled the words as they left his lips, “ _W-why is he in jail, Viktor_?”

Hysterical. That’s how he sounded.

Hysterical.

Gently, Viktor plucked the mirror from Yuuri’s hands, depositing it on the nearest chair.

In the frame, Phichit perched on a cot behind dark iron bars; his eyes closed, head lolling back against the wall, one leg swinging despondently in the confines of his little cell.

“Yuuri?” Viktor soothed, turning to face him, “Come on, stay with me, Yuuri,”

Mercy.

 _Mercy_.

He didn’t –

He _couldn’t_ –

“Yuuri. Yuuri, look at me,” Viktor coaxed, “just, just look right here. Just keep your eyes on mine,”

Yuuri bit his lip hard.

Okay.

Okay.

That sounded simple.

He could do that.

Oh mercy, he didn’t have time for this, Phichit was –

“Yuuri,”

– and it was all his faul–

“Eyes on mine, Solnyshko,”

Azure.

Azure and silver.

Azure eyes, silver locks, wolfish muzzle.

A face.

Viktor’s face.

Right.

Viktor was talking to him.

What was he saying?

“– through this, okay? Breathe. Deep breaths, Lyubov Moya,”

Okay.

Okay.

That was –

He could –

A fluttering gasp cramped his ribs.

Right. Breathing.

Had he not been before?

One breath.

Two.

“– going to take your hand now. Alright, solnyshko? Is that ok?”

Yuuri nodded numbly.

Deft, gentle paws encircled his fingertips.

Yuuri’s eyes fell to them; to his hands in Viktor’s.

He focused on that.

He was safe.

Everything was okay.

Well it wasn’t.

It wasn’t at all.

But he was safe and he could breathe and he could fix this and it was all his fault and –

“Breathe,”

Viktor’s reminder pinged in the silence.

Right.

Breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Yuuri’s hands squeezed like a vice.

Okay.

Okay.

He didn’t know long they stayed like that, as his breath evened out and his heart rate slowed. Eventually, he felt the world begin to take shape around him once more; the walls, the floor, the books, even his own body stitched themselves back together as he forced himself to breathe.

Yuuri blinked, slowly releasing Viktor’s paws; he looked up, still feeling a bit faint, but at least in control of his faculties.

For the most part.

His hands snaked up into his own hair, gripping it hard as he stared at Viktor, no idea what to do next.

A-a plan. He needed a plan. He couldn’t think straight. He needed –

“Yuuri?”

Trepidation. Worry.

“I-I’m fine. I’m okay,” Yuuri answered the unasked question, “I-I just – I need to –”

“Sit down?”

“No”

“Water?”

“No”

“Talk ab–”

“No, I need . . . I need to _do something_. I need to know. I-I need to get him out of there! I –”

“Breathe,” Viktor reminded once again.

Yuuri growled low in this throat.

Viktor offered his paw once again.

Yuuri pushed past it, embracing Viktor instead.

Nuzzling into Viktor’s soft, silver chest, Yuuri focused on breathing. His Prince’s arms wound around him; firm, but not crushing.

One paw stroked absently through his hair; careful claws softly massaging his scalp.

So soothing.

So nice.

He should just . . . just stay here forever.

But . . . he couldn’t.

Phichit needed him.

Yuuri let out a shuddering sigh, extracting himself from the embrace, “I just . . . I don’t know what could have happened,” He murmured, “I don’t know what to do, I –”

He choked on a sob; a tear ran down his cheek.

Silence.

Then, “You . . . have to go be with him,”

Yuuri crumbled; the words knocking the wind right out of him, heavy and harsh like a physical blow.

He knew that it was true. He wanted to. He had to. It was his only choice. It was as certain as it was inescapable; but all the same, it dragged Yuuri down, tore at his conscience, plucked at his heartstrings.

Absent tears continued to roll down his cheeks.

“I . . . I can’t,” Yuuri whimpered, despite his desperate urge to race to Phichit’s side. Guilt and fear and despair wrapped around his words, strangling him even as he spoke.

He gazed up into Viktor’s eyes; His Prince did not look grieved, but guarded and resolute.

“Come,” Viktor instructed, “we haven’t any time to waste,”

His tone was curt and stoic, but his touch was warm and gentle as he led Yuuri from the Library.

It very nearly stung, how easily Viktor was able to initiate his departure; Yuuri almost would have believed that Viktor didn’t care at all, if not for the firm, comforting grip his Prince kept on his trembling hand.

Yes, Yuuri knew that it was not callousness which motivated his companion; it was love.

By now, Viktor knew Yuuri’s heart inside and out; so wholly and completely that he saw right through the panic and uncertainty, to the crux of Yuuri’s turmoil. He knew what Yuuri wanted – what he _needed_ – even if Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud.

But Viktor didn’t balk, didn’t waver, didn’t hesitate – he just made the choice; bearing the responsibility and facing the consequences so that Yuuri wouldn’t have to.

To spare him the guilt of leaving.

Yuuri padded along numbly as Viktor made the preparations for his journey; nourishment, warm clothes, supplies – all were gathered swiftly and effectively. Through it all, Viktor remained poised and in control; detached and aloof, the same as he had been when they’d first met. But as they busied themselves with the arrangements, Yuuri found himself becoming more and more grateful for Viktor’s regal and commanding nature; knowing deep down that, on his own, he never would have found the strength to go.

He thought, absently, that Viktor must have been a very good Prince indeed; being able to cope with disaster with such practiced ease. So unlike Yuuri, who felt like his very bones were about to shake apart, like the darkness would rip him to shreds and swallow him whole, if not for Viktor’s steady presence keeping the horrors at bay.

Eventually, the two found themselves in the entryway; Yuuri bundled up tight in the rouge-coloured justacorpse he’d worn during their first walk through the gardens together.

“You remember the way?” Viktor asked bluntly.

“Y-yea,” Yuuri confirmed, his gaze landing on the sconces, the floor, Viktor’s obsidian claws, anywhere but his endless arctic eyes, “How . . . how will I –? Phichit took Vicchan when he . . .”

Viktor did not reply; the wrinkle in their plans forcing him to pause.

But he didn’t turn away; instead he took Yuuri’s gloved hand in one paw, and his supplies in the other.

“Magic?” his Prince suggested hopefully.

With that, Viktor shouldered open one of the massive walnut doors.

The winter world beyond was sunny and welcoming, though little flurries began to swirl past them on the breeze.

Yuuri plodded down the massive marble staircase with Viktor; his Prince's eyes were focused, his ears perked, his nose twitching in the air – alert and apprehensive, scanning the courtyard with determination.

“Viktor? W-what are you –?” Yuuri inquired, trying to follow his companions eyes.

“I’m not entirely sure yet,” Viktor admitted, not chancing so much as a glance downward, “but perhaps the cas–”

 Viktor was suddenly interrupted as a sharp, icy breeze blew past them, causing each to brace against the chill.

They both looked up again, as a crinkling sound suffused the air; like the cracking of ice underfoot, or the hum of an electrical current. Before their very eyes, the heavy, unmarred snow of the promenade began to roll itself into large, simple spheres.

Yuuri jumped, in spite of himself; Viktor merely let out a sigh, “As I was saying,” he reiterated, “Perhaps the _castle_ can help us,”

They watched in awe as the snow continued to assemble itself – first, four wide, round wheels, then a box on top of that, then seats inside the box, and finally, doors to seal it off.

“A carriage!” Yuuri cried, still a touch befuddled.

“Perfect!” Viktor agreed. He wasted no time loading Yuuri’s supplies aboard, starting to pack them in even before the carriage was finished building itself.

At last, the spheres had whittled themselves down to wagon wheels, the seat had fluffed itself out, and a thick coating of ice had glazed over the exterior; embellishing the carriage and making it shine like glass in the winter sunlight.

It was much simpler than the other magical affectations Yuuri had become familiar with, but that hardly mattered, given the circumstances.

“H-how did you –?” Yuuri caught himself, not finishing the question. He shouldn’t have underestimated his Prince; not after all he had seen.

Viktor turned back, still carefully avoiding his gaze, “That first night . . . when I told you that the enchantments on the castle were to thank for saving your brother . . . that wasn’t an exaggeration, Yuuri,” he replied stoically.

“So . . . so, the ice gate?” Yuuri puzzled, “And the roses on the veranda?”

Viktor smiled; a pathetic, fleeting thing, “that, and so much more,” he confirmed.

“Like . . . like w-what?” Yuuri stammered, kicking aimlessly at the snowy ground.

At long last, Viktor turned his attention on Yuuri.

His azure eyes were filled with sorrow.

Slowly, Viktor reached up, brushing Yuuri’s bangs out of his own sullen brown ones, “. . . you’re stalling, lyubov moya” he chided sadly.

His voice ached, heavy with the burden of a brave face.

Yuuri’s lip began to tremble; he surged forward, into another embrace. Viktor returned it gladly, clinging to Yuuri like a lifeline.

All the magic in the world; and still they could not stop the cruel march of fate.

“I-I’m s-so sorry” Yuuri wailed, finally surrendering to the inevitable; his heart shattering as the word fell to pieces.

Strong silver arms tightened around him.

“. . . you have to,” Viktor whispered.

It wasn’t a command; not an order or advice or reassurance – but permission, and understanding, and forgiveness.

At long last, Viktor released him.

Yuuri put one gloved hand on the glacial handle of the snow-carriage door.

He hesitated a moment more, shuffling his feet on the powder beneath, “but . . . what about _you_?” he beseeched, abruptly spinning back towards his Prince.

It was a question he’d been avoiding; knowing that whatever answer Viktor gave would make it so much harder to say goodbye.

But Yuuri couldn’t leave; not without hearing it anyway.

Viktor’s gaze was filled with adoration; with love and longing and regret.

“I’ve been under this spell for twenty years, Yuuri . . .” he soothed, taking Yuuri’s hands in his own paws once more, “Surely I can survive it a while longer,”

The hollow spot where Yuuri’s heart had once been surged with righteous fury.

“No!” He cried, “I-I can’t! It’s not fair!” he turned his head away in frustration, trying to hide fresh tears as they trailed down his face.

Then, Viktor was cupping his cheeks with both paws, deftly wiping them away.

“Yuuri . . . oh, my Yuuri,” Viktor murmured, quiet and heartbroken.

The tears did not cease.

“. . . w-will you come back?”

Stunned, Yuuri looked up again, met with Viktor’s most earnest expression.

“ _Of course_ ,” He vowed through his sniffling, “Of course I will, Viktor”.

Then Viktor’s eyes filled with tears too, even as he spoke, “in that case . . . there’s no reason to cry now, is there lyubov moya?”

Yuuri shook his head, a shaky chortle escaping his lips.

“Go,” Viktor begged, “Return to The Village. Find out what happened to Phichit. Do whatever it takes to help him. And then –”

Words failed as Viktor's breath hitched; Yuuri felt a pang of guilt reverberate through his ribs.

“Then –” Viktor continued, “come back to me, solnyshko. Bring Phichit with you. And Minako too. And then – ”

“We’ll break the spell,” Yuuri finished, “and we’ll all be together again,”

Viktor nodded, speechless.

They embraced one final time; but this one was quick and fierce – not a comfort, but a promise.

A memory.

At last, Yuuri climbed into the waiting snow-carriage; oddly at ease in the magical vessel.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Yuuri promised, “I-I don’t know how long it will take, or –”

“I’ll still be right here . . .” Viktor pledged, “I’m not going anywhere, lyubov moya,”

Yuuri blushed, scrambling for something to say.

“We’ll barely be four leagues apart . . . and I still have the mirror,” Viktor reminded him, “So, you’ll never be far from my mind,”

Yuuri nodded; the knowledge strangely comforting.

It was time; Yuuri knew he couldn’t stall any longer.

Phichit was waiting.

“Thank you, Viktor,” he murmured, “for everything”.

“. . . farewell, lyubov moya,” Viktor bade; soft and bittersweet.

His Prince stepped back, firmly out of reach.

Yuuri gasped, suddenly struck by a realization, “W-wait! Viktor! One more thing –”

But an instant later, the carriage was off; throwing Yuuri back against the seat with the force of its acceleration. The magic vehicle sped down the promenade, stealing Yuuri’s words as it raced towards the tree-line.

Yuuri jumped up, leaning out the carriage window to call back to Viktor, but it was too late; his Prince was nothing but a shining silver speck, shrinking into the distance.

Frustrated, Yuuri threw himself back into his seat.

He supposed he would just have to wait until he returned to the castle, to find out what “Lyubov Moya” meant.

 

*****

 

The heavy cellar doors crashed shut behind Isabella as she clambered out into the rays of the setting sun.

“Anything?” J.J. demanded; his eyes glinting dangerously in the dim orange light.

“No,” Isabella shook her head despondently, “she still won’t say a word,”

J.J. glowered, lowering himself to chain and lock the heavy pine doors.

He was brooding again.

He did that a lot these days.

A breeze rippled through the trees and Isabella shivered.

Why couldn’t this whole stupid thing just be over already?

J.J. stood and turned away, not once glancing at her.

“Stay here. Watch her,” he commanded, stalking off around the side of the house.

Isabella clomped after him, “Why? Where are you going?” she snapped.

“Back to the cottage,” J.J. replied blankly, “someone’s got to feed the damn chickens . . . and who knows? Maybe we missed something up there,”

With that, J.J. trekked off into the twilight; the soft rustling of his footfalls in the grass all that he left behind.

 

*****

 

Night had fallen by the time Yuuri reached the Small Cottage on the Hill Outside of Town.

Though the magical snow-carriage went faster than any horse Yuuri had ever ridden, it had still taken some time to reach his destination.

He’d spent the first half of the trip agonizing over leaving Viktor; the second half worried sick about Phichit.

It was surreal, watching the world melt back into summer as he made his way towards The Village; he hadn’t realized just how much he’d come to adore the picturesque beauty of winter. Along the way, he’d taken off the heavy justacorpse and nibbled on some of the rations Viktor had packed for him; but the last league or so had been rough and bumpy and supremely uncomfortable, so he had arrived sore and tired on top of being heartbroken, hung-over and horrified.

“KA-THUNK”

The carriage hit a divot in the road, jostling Yuuri right out of his seat.

“Ah! Stop!” Yuuri commanded, channeling his frustration into anger, “STOP! Mercy, _we’re here_!”

Miraculously, the carriage began to slow, coming to a gentle halt just at the tree-line.

“T-thank you,” Yuuri replied uncertainly, climbing out of the icy vehicle with as much grace as he could muster. Upon his exit, he discovered what had made the last few lengths of the journey so unbearably turbulent.

The carriage was melting; the axels sagged, the wheels warped, the doors were thin and dripping.

He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised; at least now he wouldn’t have to find someplace to hide the thing.

Yuuri shook his head, trying to keep calm and stay positive.

He silently thanked the magical carriage again, gathered up the tangible supplies and began to pick his way down the little dirt road.

Alright; the first step was to drop everything off at home, the next was to go to Minako’s place and find out what had happened.

At this time of night, she would already be in bed, but surely this was no time to worry about –

Yuuri gasped.

The farm had at last come in to view . . . but something was missing.

His arms went limp, sending all the supplies tumbling to the ground. His leather shoes slid over long grass as he dashed towards Phichit’s workshop.

Or rather, what was left of it.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!” Yuuri begged aloud, racing toward the charred remains.

Reaching it at last, he skidded to a stop, falling onto his hands and knees in the ashes; shredding his palms and breeches on the shale beneath, muddying them on the packed earth.

Fire; the stink of it was everywhere.

Great fat tears filled Yuuri’s eyes, as grief consumed him like the flames which haunted his every nightmare.

“No!” Yuuri wailed, his whole body trembling, “Phichit! W-what happened? _W-what did you do_? How many times did I tell you –?”

Yuuri sobbed, surrendering to his misery.

How?

 _How could this have happened_?

Phichit was _brilliant_. He was _safe_ ; so meticulous, so careful, so observant. There was _no way_ he would have –

As logic fought its way past the panic, something soft tickled Yuuri’s pinky.

With a gasp, he snatched his sooty hand back, searching for the source.

There in the ashes, a little beige field mouse blinked up at him expectantly.

Yuuri’s lip quivered, “P-p-poppy?”

The furry critter sniffed the air once more, and upon realizing that Yuuri was _not_ Phichit – and _worse_ , that he hadn’t brought her any _food_ – returned to exploring the ruins of the workshop.

With trembling hands, Yuuri carefully crawled through the ashes.

“One,” Yuuri murmured, scanning the wreckage closely, “One, two, three . . . four . . . _four_ . . . five, six . . . ah! Seven!”

Yuuri heaved a sigh of relief; eyes watering and woozy from the stench.

They were there; all seven of them. All of Phichit’s mice; safe and accounted for.

Yuuri thanked the universe for small mercies.

As far as omens went, some might call this a good one.

Although, considering he was on his knees, weeping into the ashes of his incarcerated brother’s demolished workshop –

“Yuuri?”

Oh _no_.

Yuuri froze; the blood in his veins turning glacial.

No.

No, no, no.

Not _him_.

 _Anyone_ but _him_.

“YUURI!”

‘ _STOMP, STOMP, STOMP, STOMP_ ’

A vice-like grip lassoed Yuuri’s arm, hauling him to his feet.

“Ow! J.J.! Let go!”

“Yuuri!” The hunter cried again, pulling him into a crushing hug, “Oh, Yuuri, thank Mercy! Is it really you?”

“Mmnpf,” Yuuri gasped, pushing J.J. off him with all his might, “of course it’s me!” he snapped, “who else would it be?”

Yuuri glared at J.J., cursing himself as another tear rolled down his cheek. He tried to stop it, he really did; but at the moment, Yuuri had more pressing issues than summoning enough patience to deal with _J.J._.

The hunter’s brow furrowed, “Yuuri, what’s wrong? What happened? Did that _monster_ hurt you? How did you escape?”

But Yuuri was only half listening; his eyes drawn inexorably to the horror of his ash-covered hands; the stench of it magnified a hundred fold by his racing thoughts and stricken heart.

He spitefully wiped them clean on his breeches.

“I-I,” Yuuri faltered, completely at a loss, “W-what are you talking about J.J.? What are you even _doing_ here?”

Once again, frustration had turned to anger.

Looking only slightly abashed, the hunter replied, “F-feeding the . . . chickens?”

Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut; yanking his glasses off to pinch at the headache forming between his eyebrows.

“And your horse!” J.J. _so helpfully_ added.

Honest to mercy, Yuuri couldn’t take much more of this.

He was stiff.

He was sore.

He was tired.

He was heartbroken.

He was scared and hurting and a little hung-over and confused as hell.

A _cryptic, pouty J.J._ was the _last_ thing he needed right now.

Yuuri sucked in a breath, between his gritted teeth.

“ _Why_ are you here _feeding my livestock_ , J.J.?” he demanded slowly; each word a staccato snare snapping in the night.

“So – you _don’t_ know then?” J.J. hedged, sounding almost compassionate, “I – I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, Yuuri, but . . . Phichit is . . .”

“IN JAIL,” Yuuri’s brain supplied furiously; but he kept his mouth shut out of sheer exasperation.

“H-he hasn’t been the same without you around. He-He got careless and . . . burned his workshop down,” J.J. confessed at last, “We think it was probably an accident, but Phichit . . . well, he’s been acting strange lately. _Really_ strange. Everybody says so. Captain Nishigori arrested him. Said he . . . might be dangerous,”

Glacial gremlins materialized between Yuuri’s ribs, jabbing at his broken, bleeding heart; clawing into it with talons of ice, shredding it with fangs of frost.

No . . .

 _Phichit_ . . .

Yuuri suppressed a wail; this was all his fault.

 _He_ was the older brother; he was supposed to look after Phichit, supposed to _protect_ him, supposed to –

“I need to find Minako,” Yuuri bit out, infinitely more composed than he felt. He pushed past J.J., storming towards the edge of the hill.

“Yuuri – Yuuri, wait! Stop! Don’t!”

J.J. howled like a coyote in the night. Yuuri ignored him.

“Yuuri! You can’t!” J.J. wailed, “Minako’s . . . gone!”

Yuuri stopped dead in his tracks.

“She . . . what?”

But . . . but Yuuri had _just_ seen her . . .

Hadn’t he?

Suddenly, J.J. was in front of him again; this time, settling his hands on Yuuri’s biceps, holding him at arm’s length.

Holding him in place.

“She’s gone,” J.J. repeated, more confidently this time, “After, um, what happened with Phichit, she left town. I, uh . . . I think she blamed herself, y’know? Yea. Yea, she packed up a bunch of her stuff and took off. Headed south . . . didn’t tell anyone where she was going,”

“No,” Yuuri hardly dared to breathe, “No, that’s not true! It can’t be!”

Once again, his cheeks were painted with tears.

“It . . . can’t be . . .”

He wondered why he even bothered to dry his eyes anymore.

Phichit was _in jail_?

Minako was _gone_?

No . . . no, it _couldn’t be_ . . .

It _couldn’t_.

Phichit . . . he was too smart. He _couldn’t_ have –

And Minako _never_ would have just left him like that –

Yuuri’s hands curled into fists.

Something was wrong.

Something was _very_ wrong.

Alright.

Don’t panic.

Just . . . just breathe.

Just . . . think about Viktor.

What . . . what would Viktor do now, if he was here?

Oh, Mercy . . . Yuuri missed him so badly; it hadn’t even been a day.

“ . . . but the important thing is that you’re home. You’re home and you’re safe, and I won’t let anything happen to you ever again,”

Yuuri blinked.

 _Mercy’s Flaming Asshole_ , was J.J. _still_ talking?

“W-what?” Yuuri sighed for the umpteenth time; only then registering the harsh bite of J.J.’s grip on his arms.   

“It’s alright Yuuri,” J.J. pledged, “You don’t have to hide it. I _know_ what’s _really_ going on, and I’m going to protect you, I _swear_ it,”

Yuuri screwed his eyes shut, “J.J., I don’t . . . protect me from _what_?”

“From –” J.J. swallowed hard and looked around conspiratorially, before leaning in close and whispering, “ _the Beast_ ,”

Yuuri’s eyes went wide; heart stopped beating, blood stopped pumping, earth stopped spinning, everything frozen with fear and dread.

Finger by finger, Yuuri pried J.J. off his arms, “I-I don’t know what you’re talking abou–”

“The _Beast_. In the forest. With the spell,” J.J. shot back, exasperated for his part as well, “The one that’s been hiding you away in his castle in exchange for ‘ _saving Phichit’s life_ ’,”

Yuuri’s voice was all ice, “how did you find out about that?” he demanded.

J.J. smirked, mistaking Yuuri’s disbelief for admiration, “I’m the greatest Hunter in the whole world, Yuuri. When you went missing, _of course_ I went looking for you,”

“You . . . _you did what_?” Yuuri roared, violated to his very core.

“I had to make sure you were safe! I had to bring you home!” J.J. objected, “Everyone kept saying you’d gone to The City, but eventually I learned the _truth_. I’ve been searching for you ever since” J.J. wrapped his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders, pulling him in close, “I never gave up, Yuuri. I vowed to come and rescue you no matter –”

“J.J. _stop_!” Yuuri hissed, “I _don’t_ –”

“But, it seems you’ve escaped all on your own, you clever thing,” J.J. interrupted, “and now that you have, I swear, I’m going to protect you”.

“ _Protect me_?” Yuuri huffed indignantly as J.J.’s words rattled around in his mind; still finding no purchase in the abyss of his turmoil. He squirmed in the hunter’s grasp.

But J.J. held firm and plowed on, “ _I promise_ , Yuuri . . . you’ll _never_ see that _evil Beast_ again,”

“ _No_!” Yuuri cried, freeing himself from J.J. with a shove. His head spun as he tried to make sense of the Hunter’s rambling, “J.J., You-you don’t understand! He’s _not_ evil – I-I didn’t ‘ _escape_ ’! And I _don’t_ need your protection!”

J.J.’s  triumphant smirk slid into a frosty scowl as he processed Yuuri’s outburst.

“So . . ?” J.J. growled, thoroughly displeased, “So, what are you saying, exactly?”

Heart racing, Yuuri scrambled for breath as he tried to find some explanation that might placate the sulking hunter, “I-I’m just here to get Phichit! W-we missed him, that’s all! But-but I’m not staying for long. We're going back to the Castle as soon as I –”

“NO!” J.J. thundered, “Yuuri, you _can’t_ go back there!”

The weight of J.J.’s objection stung; Yuuri's voice wavered as he spoke, small and lifeless and confused, “But . . . _I promised that I would_ ,”

His words only served to further exacerbate the Hunter.

“Now I see . . .” J.J. seethed, “that _vicious creature_ has _you_ in its thrall as well . . .”

Yuuri flinched at the unexpected accusation, “I-I am _not_ –”

“Now I’m _really_ going to make it pay!” J.J. roared, “ _Nobody_ steals _my Yuuri_ and gets away with it!”

Yuuri sputtered indignantly, “A-and what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

In an instant, J.J. was tenderly cradling his jaw, “Don’t despair, my sweet, beautiful Yuuri . . .” he cooed sadly, “I know this isn’t your fault. _I love you_ , and I’m going to _free_ you from the Best's  _evil spell_ . . . if it’s the _last thing_ I do,”

Electricity surged in Yuuri’s veins, “What? No! J.J., you’ve got it all wrong!”

J.J.’s hand vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

Without thinking, Yuuri chased the hunter’s cardinal sleeve, snagging J.J.’s cuff in desperate fingers, “J.J., _please_! Listen to me! You’re making a _huge_ mistake –!”

J.J. yanked his arm out of Yuuri’s grasp, “Don’t try and stop me, Yuuri!” he cautioned, “Can’t you see? The Beast has turned us against one another! But I won’t be fooled . . . I won’t let it get away with this! I’m going to hunt it down . . . and I’m going to kill it. For _you_ , Yuuri.”

The Hunter's vow made Yuuri want to retch, “No!” he cried, “Y-you can’t! I won’t let you!”

Yuuri stood there, frozen in place; too sick with fear to think straight.

How had everything gone so wrong?

Last night had been the best of his entire life; he’d been so happy, so hopeful, so . . . _in love_ . . .

And now . . .

Now, all of a sudden, Phichit was _in jail_ , Minako was _gone_ , and Viktor was being _hunted_.

J.J. was – J.J. was going to _kill_ him.

Yuuri couldn’t let that happen.

He _wouldn’t_ –

He –

“J.J., _please_ . . .” Yuuri begged, “if you care about me at all, then you’ll listen to me! I-I don’t know how you found out about Viktor, but –!”

“That _thing_ has a _name_?” J.J. snarled

“Of course _he_ has a _name_ ,” Yuuri snapped, offended to his very core, “a-and he’s not some ‘evil beast’! _He’s_ the one who’s under a spell . . . I-I'm just trying to help him! He’d never hurt anyone! Please, I know he might seem . . . ‘vicious’, but he’s really . . . _kind_ . . . and _gentle_ ,” Yuuri swallowed hard, cursing his anxiety and his hopeless way with words, “. . . he’s my _friend_ ,”

J.J.’s visage slowly darkened; from possessive to downright vengeful.

The hunter’s jaw clenched, “If I didn’t know better,” he replied acidly, “I’d think you had _feelings_ for this _monster_ ,”

Yuuri had heard enough.

“He’s no monster, J.J.! _You are_!”

Something dangerous flashed in the hunter’s eyes; Yuuri flinched, convinced that J.J. was about to reach out and strike him.

Instead, J.J. curled in on himself; his unbridled fury tightly coiling behind a rigid mask of resentment.

Every inch of the hunter tensed as he turned his steely gaze on Yuuri, “Of course,” J.J. hissed, “Of _course_ . . . Why am I not surprised? The _love of my life_ leaves me for a hideous Beast, and _I’M the MONSTER_ here? I can’t believe you would choose _him_ , after _everything_ I’ve done for you!” J.J. threw his hands up in resignation, “ _This_ is what I get for being the good guy!”

Yuuri swallowed hard. He’d never seen J.J. like this before; so intense, so glacial, so . . . _dangerous_. Every impulse in Yuuri’s brain screamed at him to flee; but for the very first time in his life, Yuuri’s reflexes failed him.

The Hunter let loose a small, self-pitying laugh, “You know, truth be told, Yuuri . . . I think I would have preferred it if you _had_ been bewitched –”

Yuuri could hardly speak; choked by rage and terror, “ _Stop it_ , J.J., –”

“So, what did _The Beast_ offer you, then?” The Hunter challenged, “Riches? Power? What does _he_ have that I _don’t_ , Yuuri? Can't imagine it's a _pretty face_ –”

“ _I said stop it_!” Yuuri hissed venomously.

The Hunter fell silent as the two stared each other down.

“Well . . . I suppose none of that really matters,” J.J. shrugged, his voice callous and cruel “This will all be over _soon_ . . . and then everything will go back to the way it  _should_ be,”

“ _The way it should be_?” Yuuri demanded, “W-what does that mean? What are you going to –?”

J.J. just smirked, “I’m going on a little _hunt_ ,” he announced.

Yuuri’s insides turned to ice.

“First thing tomorrow morning,” J.J. continued, “Isabella and I will take the dogs and track your scent back to the castle. Once we find it, we’ll hire a militia or two . . . and then burn it to the ground”

Yuuri’s heart began to race.

No.

No.

Not fire.

Not more fire.

Anything but fire –

“ . . . then I’ll slit the Beast’s throat myself . . . and free you from his grasp forever,”

No.

 _No_.

Yuuri froze.

He – he couldn’t.

Viktor – Viktor was big and strong and fierce. Viktor had claws and fangs and horns.

He . . . he might be okay . . .

 _But what about the others_?

Chris had flames, but only very small ones; and he supposed that Otabek was sort of sharp . . .

But what about Yakov? What about Georgi and Mila and Sara? What about Masumi?

What about Lilia and Minami and other instruments?

They were all made of wood; wood and paper and linen and feathers and tassels.

They – they were _live kindling_!

So was Makkachin.

“You’ll see, Yuuri . . . soon, I’ll put an end to this madness, and everything will go back to normal,”

And what about Michele and Emil, trapped in the basement?

And _Yuri_ . . . he and Nikolai were made of _porcelain_ for Mercy’s sake!

What would J.J. do once he found _them_?

“No more _magic_ , no more _spells_ . . . no more _castles_ or _BEASTS_ , or any other _bullshit_ –”

Yuuri panicked; unable to banish the terrible visions from his mind.

He couldn’t –

He _wouldn’t_ –

“ . . . and then . . . we can finally get married, and have our happily ever after”.

Suddenly, J.J. was turning; walking away. Leaving Yuuri all alone –

He couldn’t breathe.

He _had_ to stop this.

He had to stop this _NOW_.

He had to find Minako.

He had to free Phichit.

He had to _think_.

Think, Yuuri, _think_.

 _THINK DAMNIT_!

“J.J., wait!”

Yuuri’s cry rang out cold and hollow though the muggy summer night.

He may not have been able to protect Phichit, but there was still a chance he could protect his friends.

The Hunter stopped, pivoting on the spot; casting a conflicted glance back at Yuuri.

“Please!” Yuuri entreated, “J.J., just – just, _please_ , don’t hurt him!”

And though he shook from bow to stern, he had no more tears to shed.

The Hunter slowly stalked back towards him.

“You know, it’s funny,” J.J. grumbled, “even after everything you’ve put me though . . . I still can’t stand seeing your pretty face look so sad. All torn up over some worthless  _Beast_ . . .”

Yuuri swallowed hard, “so . . . so, will you leave him alone then? _Please_? For _me_? J-Just forget everything and –”

“I’m sorry, Yuuri,” J.J. sighed; he sounded surprisingly sincere, “It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I-I never wanted to hurt you . . . but you leave me no choice,” he swallowed hard, “This is for your own good,”

The Hunter began to turn away once more –

“No! J.J., _please_ , I’ll do _anything_!”

Yuuri gagged on the weak, slimy words, but they were out before he could stop them.

For one terrible moment, it seemed as though J.J. might just ignore him and walk away; but slowly, the hunter’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Yuuri’s desperate expression.

“. . . _Anything_?”

Yuuri’s heart shattered into a million pieces; like porcelain on a marble floor.

It was just as well . . . he supposed he wouldn’t be needing it anymore.

He took a deep breath.

“ _Anything_ ” Yuuri repeated, firm and resolute; knowing exactly what J.J. would demand.

The silence swirled around them like a living thing, thick and heavy and suffocating.

J.J.’s voice came out in a whisper; incredulous, almost reverent, “Yuuri . . . you know that all I’ve ever wanted is you –”

The silence covered Yuuri’s lips; sealing them with sacrifice.

“– to marry you –”

The silence slithered down Yuuri’s throat, twisting it with corkscrews.

“– and keep you by my side –”

The silence flooded Yuuri’s lungs; drowning him with shame.

“– and make you happy forever –”

J.J. took Yuuri’s hands in his; Yuuri didn’t feel a thing.

“Just give me a chance, Yuuri. Let me show you how good our life together could be. Forget about the Beast. Forget about the spell and the castle and all the terrible lies . . . and stay here in The Village with me, where you _belong_. I know you may not believe this . . . but it’s for the best. I'm sure someday you’ll see that”.

Yuuri licked his lips, his throat cracked and dry, “If I stay here with you,” he rasped, “A-and we get married, just like you want . . . then it’s over, right? You’ll leave Viktor alone?”

“So long as you never _stray_ ,” J.J. purred wickedly.

Yuuri did not find the jab amusing.

J.J. sighed, “Yes . . . against my better judgment, I’ll _spare_ the Beast,” he vowed, “So long as you promise me you’ll _never_ leave The Village _again_. Your future is _here_ , Yuuri . . . here with _me_. You know I've always loved you . . . now let me prove what a good a husband I would make,”

Yuuri flinched; J.J.’s words cracking like a whip.

“Do you _swear_ that you won’t hurt Viktor _in any way_?” Yuuri demanded, bile burning his esophagus.

J.J. melted, “cross my heart,” he promised, saccharine and stickey.

“You swear that _Isabella_ won’t hurt him?” Yuuri demanded.

“Of course,” J.J. insisted emphatically.

“And you won’t _hire_ anyone to hurt him?”

 J.J. grinned, “That goes without saying, dearest”.

Yuuri glared suspiciously at the Hunter. If he was going to make this sacrifice, he wasn’t going to leave any room for error, “I _have_ _your word_ that _you_ , and _everyone you know_ , will _stop_ hunting Viktor, _forever_? You’ll _quit_ searching for the castle, forget _everything_ you’ve learned, and _never_ speak of this to _anyone_  ever again?”

“On my honour as a Leroy!” J.J. vowed, his voice cloying and sickly sweet.

Yuuri gave a curt nod; he understood the terms.

“So . . . what do you say?” J.J. wheedled, “Just one little word, Yuuri . . . that’s all it takes”.

Yuuri bit his lip so hard he tasted blood.

It was now or never.

He just hoped Viktor could see how sorry he was.

“Yes, J.J.,” Yuuri finally replied; his voice barely a whisper, “. . . I will marry you,”

J.J. swept Yuuri into his arms; squeezing painfully tight.

“Oh, Yuuri! You don’t know how relieved I am to hear you say that! I thought I’d lost you –” J.J. sighed, “But enough about that. Let’s just get you home!”

J.J. took Yuuri’s hand and pulled him along; like a buoy on the ocean tide. Yuuri drifted mindlessly over the rolling hill; dead weight at the hunter’s side, kept afloat only by his own emptiness.

He refused to think of Viktor.

Or Phichit.

Or Minako.

All the people he had failed. All the hearts he had broken. All the lives he had ruined.

If he did, it would be only too tempting to run; back to the safety of the castle, back to the sanctuary of magic, back to Viktor’s sweet embrace.

But then, Yuuri knew he would be putting them all in danger . . .

If anything were to happen – to any of them – how could he ever live with himself?

It wasn’t pretty, but . . . but surely a broken promise was better than being dead?

“Yuuri? Yuuri, are you listening?”

J.J.’s voice tore him back to reality.

“Yes,”

“So, three days from now? Outside at sunset, in the Town Square?” J.J. chirped.

“Fine,” Yuuri agreed; though he really couldn’t care less what J.J. had to say.

“Excellent! I’ll make ALL the arrangements!” J.J. crowed, “This is going to be the biggest wedding The Village has ever seen!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Russian] Solnyshko = Солнышко = My Sunshine/Little Sun (Term of Endearment)
> 
> [Russian] lyubov moya = любовь моя = My Love
> 
> [Russian] Bozhe moy, ya takaya idiotka! = Боже мой, я такая идиотка! = Oh my God, I'm such an idiot! (loosely)


	12. The Wedding, The Feud . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wedding Day has arrived.
> 
> If anyone objects to this union, let them speak now, or forever hold their peace . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's me again! Back from the dead with THE NEXT CHAPTER.
> 
> I've broken this one into 2 parts, since it got REAL long. Still to come are: PART 2, THE INTERLUDE, and then, THE FINAL CHAPTER! I'm hoping to get part 2 out as quick as I can, so I don't leave you hanging forever! :D
> 
> Also, I realized I started this fic almost a full year ago, and I just want to thank you all for sticking with me! Your kind words and support mean so much! 
> 
>  
> 
> [Find more on Tumblr @silverscribblesuniverse](https://silverscribblesuniverse.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Like this [fancy new map of the World/Village](https://silverscribblesuniverse.tumblr.com/post/173203250918/hey-friends-here-are-some-reference-maps-for-the) that I finally finished! Check it out if you want! (Also, scale? What is scale? lol)
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS:
> 
> ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION, LANGUAGE (Seriously, this chapter has ALL THE F-BOMBS you guys)

Pale morning sunlight warmed Phichit’s arms; the honey-gold rays bifurcated by wrought iron bars. He paced his little cell languidly, eyes fixed on the heavy oak doors separating the lock-up from The Gaol’s antechamber.

Where _was_ everybody?

It wasn’t like the Nishigoris to be so late.

“Helloooo,” he called out irritably, “innocent man behind bars dying of boredom over here!”

The only response was his own echo, reverberating off the impassive stone walls.

Phichit pouted, flopping forward against the bars with a huff.

Seriously, _where were they_?

Up until now, Phichit’s ‘incarceration’ had been exceedingly pleasant; making today’s sudden solitude wholly unexpected.

The Captain had been as good as his word; the Goal was deserted, the official pardon was signed, and he hadn’t even locked the cell. Nishigori checked in on Phichit often, and even let him leave his cell at night to sleep up in the empty barracks instead. The security was so lax, in fact, that Phichit could literally leave whenever he wanted; he could open the door to his cell and walk out into town right now if he felt like it.

But, despite today’s unforeseen isolation and the pressing matters at hand, Phichit resolved to sit tight.

Nishigori had gone out of his way to protect him; trusting Phichit to stay hidden and stay safe.

But more importantly, Nishigori had been allowing the girls to come and visit him. They’d been told that there was a little bureaucratic “mix up”, so Monsieur Chulanont was staying at the Gaol as a “special guest” for a while. It was a flimsy story, but the girls had taken about as much interest in it as they had the tax records.

Truth be told, Phichit worried what they might think of him, after everything that’d happened; but to his great relief, he discovered that his fears were completely unfounded.

Finally reunited with their favourite grown-up, the triplets had spent almost every waking hour at the Gaol; bringing Phichit broken toys to fix, telling him stories, asking for help with their lessons . . .

And Yuuko! Sweet, wonderful Yuuko came by too; twice a day, in fact – bringing hot, homemade meals for him and the Captain. Like her husband, Yuuko made sure Phichit knew exactly how ridiculous she believed J.J.’s accusations to be; keeping him company for hours on end while the girls were at school.

Between the five of them, Phichit barely had any time to himself and almost didn’t notice that Minako hadn’t visited.

Not that he was complaining about the company; it was actually really . . . nice.

Almost like having a family again.

Not that Yuuri and Minako _weren’t_ family; but life was changing – for _all_ of them – and Phichit finally understood that he had to accept it. He couldn’t play the ‘little brother’ card forever; couldn’t keep lighting explosives and hiding behind Yuuri.

It was time to grow up. Time to stop being The Mad Tinker. Time to stop clinging to the past . . . and start looking to the future.

Time to become the man he wanted to be; someone that Yuuri and Minako and The Nishigoris could be proud of.

He only regretted that it'd taken a beast, a fire, and a fake arrest for him to see that.

Phichit hummed to himself, watching the ante-chamber doors and rocking on the balls of his feet, as the sunlight shifted from honey-dawn to lemony-morn. He was trying to be patient, but the cavernous silence put him on edge.

His stomach was starting to growl.

Phichit stopped humming and frowned; seriously, _someone_ should have come by now.

So . . . where were they? _What was going on_?

Had they just . . . forgotten about him?

Was the Captain even on duty?

Come to think of it, Yuuko hadn’t been by at all yesterday . . . she’d just sent the girls ahead with his meals. And she’d barely breezed through with a quick “hi” and “bye” the day before.

Phichit bit his lip; was something wrong?

Had something happened?

No; he couldn’t let himself think that way. He was just –

 _'FLOOMPH – CRASH_!'

The antechamber doors thundered open as the Triplets charged through.

“Monsieur Chulanont! Monsieur Chulanont!”

“Oh, good! He’s not dead!”

“We have breakfast!”

The triplets held aloft a little basket covered with a red chequered cloth.

Phichit hid a sigh of relief, jerking the cell door open.

“Finally!” he teased with a big grin, “you three almost had me worried! I thought you’d all forgotten about me!”

The three sported identical scandalized expressions.

“No! Never, Monsieur Chulanont!”

“We love coming to see you, honest!”

“We just got busy!”

Phichit laughed and slid easily onto the cot with his breakfast, “Girls! Girls! It’s fine!” he promised, “I’m only kidding!”

The triplets piled in after him, relieved. Axel and Lutz crawled up onto the cot, sitting on either side of him as Loop dramatically plopped down onto the floor.

“Wait. Why would I be dead?” Phichit asked absently, biting into the breakfast pastry Yuuko had sent for him.

“Cuz we forgot to feed you,” Axel replied simply.

“Hmm,” Phichit hummed, understanding.

“We didn’t mean to forget!” Lutz objected, glaring at her sisters, “it’s just there’s so much going on!”

“Oh yea? Like what?” Phichit asked conversationally.

“Uhh, the _wedding_ , silly!” Loop giggled.

Phichit swallowed his mouthful of pastry, “what wedding?” he asked, only mildly interested.

Loop opened her mouth to reply, then suddenly froze.

The three girls’ eyes all went wide as dinner plates.

“Girls?” Phichit prompted hesitantly, “ _what wedding_?”

Three sets of guilty eyes watered up at him, “ _the one we were supposed to tell you about_!” they confessed in unison.

“That’s why Okāsan’s been so busy!” Axel chirped.

“Yea, she told us to tell you because it’s important!” Lutz explained.

“I was gonna say yesterday but I forgot!” Axel cried.

“I forgot too!” Lutz added.

“I didn’t forget,” Loop scoffed, “Weddings are just gross. Fancy clothes and kissing and stuff? _No thank you_!”

“Girls! Girls! It’s okay!” Phichit assured, wiping stray crumbs off his breeches and putting down the basket.

Truthfully, he wasn’t at all intrigued by some village affair; though he was relieved that there was a legitimate reason for Yuuko’s absence.

And possibly Minako’s too.

“So, what poor souls are getting married?” Phichit joked, “Theo and Paulette? About time –”

“No! It’s –”

“– it’s Monsieur J.J. –!”

“– _and your brother_!”

Phichit’s insides turned to ice.

 _What_?

No.

Impossible!

Phichit swallowed hard. After a moment to get his bearings, he let out an incredulous, fluttering laugh, “H-ha ha, very funny,” he replied sarcastically, “you three _know_ that would never happen. Besides, Yuuri is in The –”

“It’s true though!”

“Honest!”

“That’s _why_ we were supposed to tell you!”

The girls cried out in unison, “ _Yuuri came back_!”

Phichit’s brow furrowed.

Yuuri . . . was home?

Yuuri was _home_!

Wait.

This . . . this was _terrible_ news.

Yuuri shouldn’t be here!

Had he broken the spell already?

And why was he _engaged to J.J._?

And _where was Minako_?

And _why_ hadn’t anyone _told_ him anything?

Phichit’s eyes went wide; he should have trusted his gut.

As if they could read his mind, the triplets rambled on.

“He’s really back!”

“It’s true!”

“We’ve seen him!”

“He got here a couple days ago!”

“Monsieur J.J. wrote to him in The City and told him about the fire!”

“So Yuuri raced home to see you!”

“And then he heard about how Monsieur J.J. saved your life –”

“– and they fell in love –”

“– and Monsieur J.J. proposed right then and there!”

“They’re getting married _today_!”

“In the Town Square!”

“At sunset!”

Phichit couldn’t do anything but blink.

Yuuri . . . He’d been home for _days_?

Then – then why wouldn’t he –? Why hadn’t he . . . come to see him?

His own _brother_ . . .

Phichit swallowed hard, stamping down his hurt and forcing himself to stay calm.

This . . . this wasn’t right. This was _clearly_ J.J.’s doing. Probably. Somehow.

All he had to do was think; with a little scrutiny, he could rip this story to shreds.

For one thing, J.J. _couldn’t_ have ‘ _written to Yuuri in The City_ ’ – because Yuuri was never _in_ The City! And Yuuri _wasn’t_ in love with J.J. – Yuuri could _never_ fall in love with J.J.! Even if J.J. _had_ saved Phichit’s life; which technically didn’t count, considering _he_ was the one who _started_ the damn blaze in the first place. Yuuri _wouldn’t_ just . . .

He _couldn’t_ have . . .

Phichit took a deep breath. Upset as he was, he reminded himself that these were all _lies_ ; nothing more.

They _had_ to be.

He just had to _think_.

Alright.

Alright, so all he knew for certain, was that Yuuri was back, and he was marrying J.J. – tonight. At Sunset. In the Town Square.

But . . . _why had Yuuri come home_?

 _What happened at the Castle_?

 _How was this wedding even possible_?

Even if Yuuri _thought_ he had a good reason for marrying J.J., _Minako_ would have stopped him, right? Surely, _she_ would have talked some sense into –

A light went off in Phichit’s brain.

He cleared his throat, steeling his expression as he looked into the triplets’ big, pleading eyes, “Oh . . . I-I see. Well, that explains it then!” he began, forcing nonchalance into his voice, “Uh. Thanks for telling me, girls! Say, would you three be able to help me out with something?”

“Of course!”

“Anything!”

“What’ll you give us?”

Phichit let out another awkward laugh, “Ha, ha, cute. Anyway, I promised your Otōsan that I would stay _right here_ until he told me I could go home . . .” he took a deep breath, continuing in the same sweet, saccharine tone, “is there _any_ chance you girls could find Yuuri and Minako and ask them to come see me _right away_?”

Phichit had to play this just right; in order to stop this wedding, he needed more than rumors. He needed _facts_. He needed _answers_.

He needed to know the _truth_.

“Minako-senpai is gone”.

Phichit felt the floor give away beneath him, “w-what?”

The triplets’ expressions were all downcast.

“She left,” Axel murmured.

“A couple days ago. Before Yuuri came home,” Lutz added sadly.

“S-she didn’t even say goodbye,” Loop pouted.

“She _left_? Where did she go?” Phichit gasped, unable to believe his ears.

“Dunno,” Axel shrugged, “we just woke up one day and she was gone!”

“I heard some people saw her leave town,”

“I heard she had all her bags packed too,”

Something dark brewed in the pit of Phichit’s stomach, “Did-did they say which way she’d gone?”

“She went into The Forest!”

“No she didn’t! Davey Millar said his brother Theo said that Paulette Baker said –”

“She went to The City, duh!”

“No! You’re both wrong! Paulette Baker _saw her_ on the path by Monsieur J.J.’s house!”

“Forest!”

“City!”

“Forest!”

“City!”

“Okay! Okay, that’s . . . it’s fine. Don’t worry about it, girls,” Phichit interjected, as patiently as possible, “just . . . go find Yuuri and tell him I need to talk to him before the wedding, okay? Can you do that for me?”

“Fat chance,” Loop guffawed.

Phichit was about to lose it, but mercifully, Lutz explained.

“He’s at Monsieur J.J.’s house making _kissy faces_ ,” she cawed, “they live together now, and we can’t go there or else we’ll get in trouble,”

“You’ll get in _trouble_?” Phichit repeated incredulously, “Why?”

Axel sighed, “Okāsan says we’re not supposed to go there and we’re not supposed to bother them because they’re very busy and they have a wedding to plan and ‘ _it’s such short notice, but you know how J.J. gets’_ and they haven’t spent a single second apart since Yuuri came home even though Monsieur J.J.’s house is full of people getting ready and they were all over town yesterday getting flowers and cakes and stuff and they still have a lot to do and there are very important people coming into town today for the wedding which is why Otōsan was too busy guarding stuff to read us a bedtime story last night”.

The other two nodded as their sister explained; Axel droned on, exasperated, as if this was all very obvious, and Phichit was being very ridiculous indeed for not already knowing this himself, being a grown-up and all.

Phichit hummed pensively.

So . . . Yuuri returned out of the blue and agreed to marry a man he despises, for no discernible reason, with less than a week between the engagement and the ceremony?

On top of that, Yuuri was now living with J.J., in his big fancy house _full of people_ . . . and J.J. hadn’t let Yuuri out of his sight _once_ since he’d returned?

Not even to let Yuuri come see his own brother?

Phichit’s brow furrowed; his insides turned to ice.

It didn’t sound to _him_ like Yuuri was J.J.’s _fiancée_ . . . it _sounded_ like he was J.J.’s _prisoner_.

Add to that, the fact that Minako was suddenly _nowhere to be found_?

That was all _far too suspicious_ to be co-incidence.

But . . . it _couldn’t_ be true, could it? Yuuri being forced into marriage? Why? To what end? Even J.J. wasn’t _that_ evil –

Well, on second thought . . .

Phichit’s stomach plummeted as his mind raced.

This whole thing was impossible. Impossible! It didn’t make any sense. It didn’t add up.

 _Why had Yuuri even come back in the first place_?

Phichit groaned and screwed his eyes shut, burying them in his hands. He couldn’t _do_ anything, stuck here like this. He needed _answers_ , damn it!

He should just storm over to J.J.’s place _right now_ and _demand_ –

Phichit let out a quiet, shuddering sigh.

No. No. That was stupid, reckless, impulsive; a failure waiting to happen.

That was something _The Mad Tinker_ would do.

He needed to be _better_ than that; _smarter_ than that.

 _Safer_ than that.

No, there was no way he could reach Yuuri, not with him under J.J.’s watchful eye; if _anyone_ caught sight of Phichit, then the whole town would figure out what Nishigori had done to protect him.

He couldn’t betray the Captain like that; he _wouldn’t_ –

But – Yuuri and Minako were the only ones who knew the truth! Well, besides J.J and Isabella, of course; but he’d never get a straight answer out of _those two_.

“M-monsieur Chulanont? Are you ok?”

Ugh! This was infuriating! If he only knew _why_ Yuuri had come home! If he only knew what was going on at –

“Monsieur Chulanont? Are you still breathing?”

“I think he died”

“No he didn’t!”

Phichit gasped; his head snapped up, eyes wide with epiphany.

– _The Castle_!

 _Of course_!

If _ANYONE_ would know what had happened –

Phichit sprang to his feet.

“Look! He’s alive!”

“Told ya!”

But, how would he get there?

Where was Vicchan? Was anyone watching the farm?

Did he even have enough time?

How long until Sunset?

“Girls, what time is it?” Phichit asked brusquely.

“Uhh . . . day time?”

“Time to buy a sun dial?”

“My tummy says it’s right between breakfast and lunch!”

Phichit grinned.

Perfect.

Now, all he had to do was sneak out of town unnoticed.

 _Surely_ Nikiforov would know something! Maybe he could _help_ –

Maybe _that’s_ where Minako had gone!

 _Maybe she had remembered_!

Phichit’s heart fluttered in his chest; perhaps it was too much to hope for, but at the moment, hope was all he had.

He jolted to the doorway of his cell; hesitating for only a moment at the threshold.

Captain Nishigori . . . he would understand, right?

This was an _emergency_ after all.

“Girls,” Phichit began, swivelling back towards them, “I’m sorry, I have to go,”

“Go where?” Axel inquired with a little tilt of her head, “why?”

“You’re acting weird Monsieur Chulanont,” Lutz remarked.

“Otōsan’s gonna be mad,” Loop warned.

Phichit bit his lip; how could he explain?

He knelt down until he was eye level with the triples.

“I know,” He sighed, “I know I’m breaking my promise. And I’m really, _really_ sorry,”

The girls just stared.

Phichit took another deep breath, “Well, okay. So, your Otōsan is the Captain of the guards, yea? And – and he became a guard because he cares about other people, and . . . because he believes in doing what’s right, right?”

The girls just nodded.

Right. Okay. Breathe.

“Well . . . I believe in doing what’s right too,” Phichit explained, “and _sometimes_ . . . in order for us to do what’s _right_ , and _protect_ the people we care about, we have to do not-nice things, like . . . like being honest with people, even though we know the truth might hurt their feelings, or breaking the rules . . . or breaking our promises,”

The girls’ eyes went wide.

“Not _all the time_!” Phichit corrected instantly, “ _Only_ when it’s an emergency! _Only_ when someone is in trouble!”

“Is . . . is this an emergency?”

“Yea? _Is there_ someone in trouble?”

“Are you in trouble Monsieur Chulanont?”

Phichit sighed, “I’m worried about Yuuri,” he confessed, “I think this wedding is a very, very, _very_ bad idea . . . and I honestly believe that the right thing to do . . . is to stop it,”

The girls all blinked at him.

“Well, _duh_! Obviously the wedding is a _bad_ idea, Monsieur Chulanont!”

“That’s what we’ve been saying!”

“You scared me! I thought someone was dying!”

Now, it was Phichit’s turn to blink, “You . . . what?”

Axel sighed dramatically, “Monsieur J.J. is _the worst_ ,” she whined, “He always ruffles my hair and he almost stepped on me one time,”

“Otōsan is _always_ complaining about him!” Lutz supplied, “you should hear some of the things he says! I can’t repeat any of them though ‘cause of all the bad words –”

 “Okāsan is nice to _everyone_ , and even _she_ can’t stand him!” Loop laughed, “She thinks your brother’s completely bonkers for marrying him!”

Phichit’s eyebrows shot up, “Oh,” he replied brightly, “well, in that case . . . if your Otōsan asks where I went . . .”

The girls looked at one another mischievously, all sporting maniacal grins.

“Sure thing, Monsieur Chulanont –”

“– Or maybe –”

“– We could _help_?”

A giddy flutter tickled Phichit's chest.

 _Perfect_.

He hummed, feigning contemplation, “I don’t know . . . you girls think you can stall the wedding until I get back?” he drawled impishly.

The girls smirked, “just leave it to us!” they answered wickedly.

Phichit grinned; now _this_ was going to be _fun_.

 

*****

 

The morning sun was low and cold in the sky; sluggish yellow light languidly sluiced its way across the landscape, creeping through the grass and dripping like egg yolks over the rolling hills.

Isabella had been awake for hours, preparing for her best friend’s wedding.

She frowned, watching the world go by beyond J.J.’s kitchen window. 

The reluctant sunshine seemed fitting to her; as if even Mother Nature herself had been thrown off course.

Yuuri was back; and today, he and J.J. were getting married.

Truth be told, Isabella had never really believed this day would come.

And yet, here it was.

She . . . she was happy for J.J.; really, she was.

And she supposed she was glad that Yuuri was safe.

More than anything, she was thankful that J.J. seemed to be back to his old self again.

So, Isabella had put on her biggest smile and helped J.J. make all the arrangements.

But as much as she insisted she fine – and desperately wanted to be – a sickly, creeping envy wove its way between her ribs; wrapping around them like poison ivy. And every time she tore them out, they only grew back thicker and stronger, like the useless weeds they were.

Still, she refused to let her feelings get in the way of Yuuri and J.J.’s happiness; didn’t they deserve it, after all that they had been through?

She could still recall the night Yuuri had returned in vivid detail; how small he’d seemed, how shaken, how scared and desperate and filthy . . . 

 

***

 

The sun was down, but Isabella was up; pacing J.J.’s living room like a trapped animal, when the heavy front door flew open without warning.

And there in the doorway next to J.J. stood none other than Katsuki Yuuri. 

The dancer was a wreck; his face a mask of pain and sorrow as J.J. led him into the house. Yuuri didn’t say a word; just hovered there, aimless and adrift.

There was something strange in Katsuki’s eyes; something feral and . . . _haunted_. Isabella knew her presence would be of no comfort to him, so despite her shock and curiosity, she had allowed J.J. to usher him up to the guest room with little explanation.

What J.J. had recounted afterward had chilled her to the bone, despite the warm glow of the fireplace.

“It’s as we thought,” J.J. had said, an uncertain flicker in his eyes, “Yuuri was given to the Beast as payment, in exchange for The Tinker’s life. He’s been trying to escape, all this time. Now he’s finally made it home . . . and we’re going to protect him,”

Isabella instantly agreed; Katsuki Yuuri wasn’t her favourite person by any stretch of the imagination, but nobody deserved to be sold out by their own family like that.

Nobody deserved whatever had put that look in his eye.

She’d nearly stormed down to the gaol right then and there to strangle the Tinker with her own two hands . . . but J.J. had talked her out of it.

“Just leave _him_ and _the Tutor_ to me,” he’d requested abruptly, “Yuuri . . . uh, he said he never wants to see either of them again. I’ll make sure he doesn’t”.

 So, Isabella had promised to keep an eye on the Tutor while J.J. came up with a plan. The old cellar worked nicely for that; it was all underground and made of stone, windowless and nearly sound-proof. Being detached from the main house, the only way in or out was through the re-enforced cellar doors out back, which were under heavy lock and key.

They would deal with Yuuri’s traitorous family soon enough, but _first_ , they would track Yuuri’s scent back to the castle, hire a militia, and then . . .

Well, then, J.J. would do what J.J. did best.

It all seemed reasonable enough; if not unbearably grim.

But, The Beast was clearly evil, and The Tinker and Tutor had taken it's side, so Isabella agreed to help. As far as she was concerned, they all deserved whatever punishment they got.

It would be difficult, dangerous even, but she and J.J. were ready; they had the perpetrators in custody, they had Yuuri back safe, they had a plan –

And then . . . J.J. had announced his and Yuuri’s engagement.

Three days’ time; then he and Yuuri would be wed, in the midst of all this tragedy and chaos.

It seemed highly inappropriate to Isabella; but she’d written off any misgivings as her own terrible jealousy rearing its ugly head.

Sure, it would be difficult to pull off such a grand event in so little time, and with _everything else_ going on . . . but if that was what J.J. wanted, then that’s what Isabella would do.

Besides, it had been a hard summer. There was no harm in a little celebration, was there?

And if . . . if on the _off_ chance that J.J. _wasn’t_ a match for The Beast . . . then at least he would perish with no regrets.

 

***

 

So that was why Isabella had sacrificed her sleep and her sanity these past three days, organizing the grandest last-minute affair possible.

Now, she stood in J.J.’s kitchen, fussing over obstinate centerpieces and willful bouquets; gritting her teeth as she tied meticulous bows of purple and green around bundles of fresh-cut wild flowers.

Sympathy and bitterness warred in her brain as she wrapped another bouquet; this was a victory, a joyous day, a happy ending –

And yet, somehow every sentiment rang hollow.

“Need help?” A soft voice offered over her shoulder.

It seemed that the first of the groomsmen had arrived.

Isabella waved a dismissive hand, “Nah, I’ve got it. Thanks Marcel,”

Despite her objection, Marcel picked up the lengths of ribbon and began to cut them to size.

“You alright?” He asked without preamble, dark eyes trying to reach her own.

“Just fine,” she replied shortly, tugging another bow into place.

Marcel only shrugged, looking back to the ribbons, “I know this is supposed to be the happiest day of J.J.’s life and everything, but . . . you’re allowed to be frustrated, Isabella. I mean, all this work in such a short time? I can hardly wrap my own head around it . . . and all I have to do is show up and look nice”.

Marcel’s laugh was soothing; as was everything else about him.

Isabella jerked another knot into place, mangling the dainty bow she had been fussing over, “yea, well . . . if J.J. had known that _one little act of heroism_ was all it’d take for Yuuri to say ‘yes’, I’m sure he would have found a way to save The Tinker’s life years ago,”

She scowled; both at the centerpiece and the lie.

It was the story that J.J and Yuuri had come up with to explain the sudden, unexpected nuptials. Neither of them were eager for the townsfolk to learn the truth, after all.

No; the Mysterious Playboy, Katsuki Yuuri, had been having a _simply_ _marvelous_ time in The City – but he’d raced back home the _instant_ word reached him about the fire. Yuuri was so overcome by J.J.’s _incredible_ bravery that he finally fell in love with the Hunter – and now the two planned to tie the knot immediately to make up for lost time.

It was all very _romantic_.

The Villagers all seemed to think so anyway; but Isabella still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong . . . like this wedding was an accident just waiting to happen.

J.J. seemed convinced that Yuuri was now madly in love with him – after everything he’d done to save him from The Beast – but Isabella wasn’t so certain.

Perhaps it was the jealousy, or perhaps it was the nerves or the darkness of the deeds yet to come, but something inside of her whispered wicked thoughts of broken promises and failing faithfulness.

It just seemed so _impossible_ that _now_ of all times, Yuuri would decide to finally accept J.J.’s proposal.

But . . . but maybe Isabella had just been wrong about the dancer? Perhaps Yuuri had loved J.J. all along, and was only playing coy, like the drama queen he was. Or perhaps, Yuuri had finally realized the scope of J.J.’s devotion; perhaps he’d been touched by J.J.’s sacrifices and allowed himself to give the hunter a chance at last.

Perhaps, the months he’d spent as The Beast’s prisoner had changed him. Perhaps Katsuki was a different person now; a better, stronger, more sensible person – a person who could finally see the goodness in J.J.’s heart.

Or perhaps . . .

Perhaps J.J. was merely a port in a storm; Yuuri’s shelter and protection after his horrific encounter with the creature in the woods.

In any case, J.J. had been willing to snatch up whatever affection Yuuri dangled in front of him – just like he _always_ had – and by the end of the day, the two would be married; bound forever in wedded bliss.

Isabella sighed as she fumbled with another bow.

Whatever Katsuki’s motives, she supposed J.J.’s happiness was all that mattered.

As long as Katsuki was kind and devoted and dutiful; as long as he was affectionate and  treated J.J. well and made him smile . . . that was enough, wasn’t it? Sure, it wasn’t exactly an ending fit for a Fairy Story, but Isabella _supposed_ that there were worse things. And besides, Yuuri marrying the man who would slay the Beast and avenge his honor was sort of romantic too; in its own sad, sooty sort of way.

“Hmm, ‘spose so,” Marcel frowned disapprovingly, “doesn’t answer my question though,”

Isabella let the silence hang as she bundled another bouquet.

“Isabella?” Marcel pressed. 

Isabella sighed and screwed her eyes shut, knowing he wasn’t going to let this go. Marcel had never been one to shy away from intimate conversations, and Isabella’s feelings for J.J. were almost as obvious as J.J.’s feelings for Yuuri.

Almost.

Isabella forced her eyes to open and her voice to relax, “even if I _wasn’t_ okay with this – which I _am_ ” she insisted, “It’s a bit late for me to do anything about it now . . . don’t you think?”

She finally looked up; Marcel’s deep, dark eyes were filled with sympathy, “Fair enough,” he conceded, “just thought I should ask,”

Isabella nodded and the two returned to crafting centerpieces in silence.

At length, Marcel spoke again, mercifully conversational this time, “so, where is the blushing Groom-to-be?” he quipped.

Isabella snorted, “Upstairs. Both of them,” she muttered, “Yuuri’s been staying in the guest room ever since he got back. I don’t think he likes being around the workshop . . . . or, what’s left of it”.

In fact, Yuuri had hardly been out of J.J.’s sight since he returned; it was sweet, if a bit . . . co-dependent. Though Yuuri probably didn’t want to be alone right now – considering what he’d been through – and there was no presence in town stronger or safer than J.J.’s.

“Can’t say I blame him,” Marcel agreed, now moving on from ribbon-cutting to bow-tying, “Are Boucher and Dupont here yet? Not that I’d bet money on it . . .”

“They’re running an errand for J.J.,” Isabella dismissed, “some ‘top-secret boys-only wedding-mission’, I guess,”

Marcel smirked, “so, is this the part where I sulk about being excluded from the ‘top-secret boys-only wedding-mission’?” he quipped, “or the part where I thank every mercy on earth I wasn’t dragged along on another one of Stephan Boucher’s misadventures?”

Isabella laughed for the first time in months, “the second one,” she replied, “definitely the second one”.

With a wink a nudge and a soft smile, Marcel returned to tying the bouquets.

It wasn’t long before the house became a flurry of activity, as anyone who was anyone appeared to offer congratulations and help with the set-up. Isabella did her best to co-ordinate their efforts, slowly eaten away by fatigue and frustration and feelings.

She was nearly dead on her feet by the time Stephan and Damien arrived; empty-handed and covered in mud.

“Dry your eyes, ladies! Stephan Boucher has arrived!” the meathead hollered, strutting into the kitchen.

Marcel rolled his eyes, “does _Stephan Boucher_  care to wipe his mercy-forsaken feet so he doesn’t track mud all over the place on J.J.’s _wedding day_?” he chided.

“He does _not_ ,” Stephan shot back, “where is J.J. anyway?”

“Upstairs,” Isabella snapped.

With a half-assed salute, Stephan turned and jogged up the steps, stomping the entire way.

Isabella’s words chased after him, “And that better not be your _wedding suit_ all covered in shi–!”

“Calm down, Princess,” Damien scoffed, coming around the corner, “we haven’t even touched them yet! They’re right on the bench where we left ‘em!”

“Well then, go change, _chicken-legs_ ,” Isabella goaded.

“I don’t have to listen to you. You’re not my _mother_ ,” Damien challenged, pushing dirt-caked hair out of his eyes with an equally filthy hand.

“And yet you’re still acting like a _child_ ,” Isabella shot back.

“What about _you_?” Damien objected, “I don’t see you getting into your –”

Isabella’s eyes flashed dangerously, “Damien. Change. Now. Go”.

With a flick of his flaxen hair, the teen slid out of the kitchen, “ _fine_! Mercy’s flaming asshole, Isabella –”

“Alright boys – time for a pint!” Stephan cried, thundering back down the stairs, “Who’s in?”

Isabella sighed; it was going to be a _very_ long day.

 

*****

 

Phichit adjusted his jacket, tugging at the rough wool with a grimace.

He looked back to the tarnished mirror, examining his new disguise; navy blue breeches and matching blue military doublet, scuffed black boots with starchy white spatter dashes . . . and to top it all off, a naval cocked hat; two sizes too big with white lace ruffling the edges.

The makings of a very handsome guard’s uniform.

Well . . . a fairly standard guard’s uniform.

Well . . . an embarrassingly sub-par guard’s uniform; but it would have to do.

Phichit just hoped it was convincing enough to sneak him out of town.

He’d fished the pieces out of an old, abandoned garrison trunk up in the barracks; and while the clothes were standard issue, they itched something terrible and smelled like fermented moth balls.

With one last frown at the mirror, Phichit snuck down to the gaol’s antechamber, where the triplets were waiting for him.

“Great outfit Monsieur Chulanont!” Axel snorted.

“So dashing!” Lutz added sarcastically.

“You look dumb,” Loop confirmed.

Phichit rolled his eyes, “yea, yea,” he huffed, “see anyone out there?”

“A few . . .”

“But no sign of J.J. or his creeps”

“We can distract them, easy!”

Phichit nodded; that wasn’t so bad . . .

He tugged his hat down over his ears, hiding as much of his face as he could.

The Gaol led straight out into the Town Square, where some of the villagers were currently setting up for the wedding.

The Town Square was large and well appointed; all dark grey cobblestones and close-cropped gardens. The South end was bordered by the Gaol, with the Chapel to the East and the Town Hall to the North. Behind the Chapel was the cemetery; walled in by towering grey brick. A wrought iron fence enclosed the entire square; along the west side of it was a small, decorative iron gate, which almost always stood open. Thin trees and faded shrubberies grew in between the buildings like the world’s saddest park; rusty benches and pathetic flowers sizzling in the sunlight.

At one time, the Town Square had been the center of The Village; where one and all would gather for proclamations, festivals, executions and other official business. These days however, the Town Square didn’t see much use – not with their Lord Maire residing in The City and all – and had become little more than a glorified courtyard; frequented only by Captain Nishigori, the guards, and the Chaplain. The Marketplace, where the Tavern and shops were located, was much larger, much livelier, and actually much more central.

“Now remember,” Axel cautioned, “the ceremony is here at sunset,”

“And the reception is outside the Tavern after that!” Lutz added.

“Okāsan is helping to take down the Marketplace stalls and set up tables instead,” Loop reiterated.

“We were supposed to go help her,” Axel explained.

“After we made sure you didn’t starve,” Lutz corrected.

“Most people are there right now, so you’ll have to hurry!” Loop cautioned.

Phichit nodded; this was the best chance he was going to get.

“Alright, girls,” He agreed, “ready when you are,”

The girls nodded solemnly.

“Don’t worry Monsieur Chulanont!”

“We’ll stop that wedding no matter what!”

“And if we get caught, we’ll try not to rat you out!”

With that, the girls slipped outside; Phichit watched, holding the door open only as wide as he dared.

The triplets toddled down to where the Chaplain was setting up chairs with Theo Millar, Paulette Baker and their respective fathers.

“Here we go . . .” Phichit murmured.

“WAAAAAAAAAH!”

“SHE HIT ME!”

“ME TOO!”

“NO I DIDN’T! YOU HIT ME!”

“IT HUUUUUUURTS!”

The girls began to scream and fight and cry, causing a huge ruckus near the Chapel steps. The adults all dropped what they were doing and dashed over to discipline the flailing children.

Phichit didn’t miss a beat; sliding quickly past the heavy doors and popping gingerly down the stone steps. He kept his chin tucked low and his strides purposeful.

He didn’t look back.

Phichit passed through the little iron gate without issue, quickly turning his head when a hay wagon thundered down the street in front of him.

He quickly re-oriented himself; eyes scanning the roads and deciding on the safest route.

Immediately to his right was the watchtower, precariously built up on splintered wooden beams and surrounded by trees. In front of him, the street forked; one path led straight ahead towards The Village limits and the Main Road – the other veered sharply to the left, leading to the communal well and the Marketplace just beyond.

Straight ahead it was, then.

Or maybe . . .

With a surreptitious glance, Phichit ducked into the shadow of the watchtower and precariously picked his way through its ancient legs. He came to rest in the shelter of a massive oak tree, just on the other side.

From here, he could see the Main Road, which bordered the northernmost limit of The Village; if followed to the west, one would hit the coast, and if followed to the East, one would reach the dazzling lights of The City. Straight North, however, lay a dusty little offshoot; a rocky footpath winding up a grassy hill, which would lead Phichit straight back home.

He just hoped that when he got there, he wouldn’t run into any unexpected guests.

As soon as the coast was clear, he darted from his cover; dashing across the wide, worn road and stumbling up the hill. It was difficult trying to walk tall like a guard, while still moving fast and concealing his identity, but somehow he managed.

Ascending one last rolling crest, Phichit came face to face with the charred remains of his workshop.

He bit his lip; it still pained him to see.

Yuuri was probably furious about it.

Phichit sighed; he supposed they had bigger problems now.

Mercifully, the farm seemed abandoned as he strode past the cottage and the hen house and the little garden. The vegetables were shrivelled and dead and overgrown with weeds, but the chickens were still clucking away.

Someone had clearly been caring for them since his ‘arrest’ and Minako’s disappearance; the Nishigoris perhaps?

There was no time to wonder.

Phichit deftly dipped into the paddock; no sight of Vicchan.

Slowly, he crept into the stable.

Once inside, he breathed a sigh of relief; both for the cover, and for the sight of Vicchan in his stall, lazily lapping at his salt lick.

His hay was clean, his feeding trough full, his water cool and fresh.

It seemed whoever had been feeding the chickens was also tending to Vicchan.

Phichit thanked the universe for small mercies.

In the blink of an eye, he had the shire horse tacked and ready to go. He swung up into the saddle commandingly, urging Vicchan out and toward the forest.

An instant later, the trees closed around them; the summer sun weakening as it filtered through their dense leaves.

The air turned muggy beneath the green canopy, and for just a moment, Phichit felt like he couldn’t breathe; assailed by memories of brambles and thorns and darkness and wolves and magic and ice.

He grit his teeth, closed his eyes and spurred Vicchan into a gallop, plunging headlong into the sunny thicket.

He didn’t have time for fear; Phichit Chulanont had a wedding to stop.

 

*****

 

Isabella lay prone on J.J.’s sitting room couch with her hands pressed over her eyes.

She didn’t know how much more of this she could take.

“OW! Mercy, you tryin’ to kill me, Durand?” Damien griped, as Marcel slowly and carefully combed out his mud-splattered hair.

After an eternity of whining and insults, the groomsmen were still nowhere near ready to go, and Isabella had lost all will to fight them.

“Sit still and it won’t hurt as much,” Marcel replied flatly, brushing at the same twiggy tangle in Damien’s hair for at least the hundredth time.

Stephan, who was now well and truly sloshed, watched with great amusement.

“Hey, Durand! Y-you should give ‘im those braids. Two of ‘em. Like a milkmaid!” the oaf snickered.

“Durand, _don’t you dare_! I have a musket and I WILL use it –”

“Calm down. You don’t have the range in here are you know it –”

“Woo! Shoot-off! Wedding day shoot-off! I’ll get the –”

“In _your_ condition? Perhaps you should stick to shooting off your mouth –”

“HA! Take _that_ Bourchier!”

“You take it, milk maid–!”

“Come on Yang, you’re not quitting on me _now_ , are you?”

A soft voice snickered next to her ear.

She very nearly smiled.

“J.J., _save me_ ,” she whined.

With a little chuckle, his hands wrapped around hers, pulling her swiftly to her feet. 

J.J. nodded towards the front door and the two slipped out unnoticed.

It was a beautiful late-summer day; not a cloud in the sky, but delightfully breezy.

The perfect day for a wedding.

“Ahh . . . silence,” Isabella quipped, “merciful, _merciful_ silence,”

“The guys are giving you hell, eh?” J.J. smirked.

Then, Isabella did smile.

Today, the hunter was dressed in his finest; the singed red hunting jacket exchanged for his father’s emerald green banned military jacket. The epaulettes, trim and embellishments across the chest were all a rich, regal indigo, and the brassy buttons sparkled in the sun. His breaches were a slightly darker shade of green; his chocolate-brown knee-high leather boots polished to a shine.

He was light again. Smiling again. Happy again

He was J.J. again.

Isabella felt very plain indeed standing there next to him, dressed in her usual hunting attire.

Isabella shrugged, “no more than usual,” she allowed.

J.J. snorted, “I guess it was too much to hope that the guys might be _civil_ for once” he lamented, “even on the most important day of my life,”

“It’s fine, J.J.,” Isabella soothed, “it’s hardly noon. We still have plenty of –”

“Just _one_ day – is that too much to ask? _One mercy-forsaken day_ –”

“We’ll be ready to go as soon as Marcel is done with Damien’s –”

“Yuuri hasn’t even _started_ getting dressed yet –”

“Then we’ll wait. There’s no rush, J.J. –”

“You _do_ know I left Theo and Paulette in charge of set-up, right?” J.J. whinged, “I’ll be surprised if they kept their hands to themselves long enough to even finish _two_ rows! And _who knows_ how things are going over at the Tavern? Ugh, I should be there –!”

Isabella perked up, “Yes! You should!” she chirped.

J.J. cast her a quizzical glance.

“You go on ahead, I’ll follow with Yuuri and the guys as soon as I can,” she offered simply.

J.J. bit his lip, mulling over the proposition; concern colouring his features.

“It’s fine. I’ll take care of things here,” Isabella pledged, “trust me, J.J.”

With a sigh, J.J. relented, “Yea. Yea, alright,” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath, “So . . . you and the guys will _stay here with Yuuri_ and _all_ head over _together_ once you’re set, right?”

Isabella didn’t miss the intention behind J.J.’s instructions; or the pointed look he gave her as he spoke.

“I promise, I won’t let anything happen to him,” She vowed, lowering her voice, “It’s just one afternoon, J.J., what could happen?”

J.J. nodded pensively, “Just . . . just keep him away from –”

“She’s still . . . _secure_ ,” Isabella assured, “Yuuri has _no idea_ she’s here, and I highly _doubt_ that she knows about the wedding. Unless she somehow overheard,”

“Unlikely,” J.J. agreed. His brows furrowed in contemplation, “still through . . . I – I really shouldn’t leave Yuuri –”

“The Tinker is safely behind bars, and we’ll _all_ be here with him” Isabella reminded, “No one is going to –”

“Oh, right!” J.J. gasped, fumbling for the inside pocket of his coat, “Isabella, I need you to sign this –”

He held forth a slender white envelope; crisp and clean, save for a single dog-eared corner.

Isabella snatched it up gracelessly, “what is it?”

“I came up with a . . . _solution_ ,” J.J. replied cryptically.

Isabella slid a scribbled page from the heavy folds. Her eyes narrowed.

“This is a petition,” she murmured numbly, eyes scanning the text, “Y-you want Lord Maire Marchand to have The Tinker . . . institutionalized?”

“Not just me” J.J. countered, pointing to the signatures at the bottom of the page.

Isabella skimmed the list of names; it seemed almost everyone in town had signed, from Theo and Paulette to Louis Dubois to the Chaplain. Unsurprisingly, J.J.’s signature was at the top of the list, followed immediately by Stephan and Damien’s.

“The ‘Leroy’ name carries a lot of weight with the Lord Marie,” J.J. continued, “Captain Nishigori may have locked The Tinker up, but we all know he’s been dragging his feet on the verdict. I think he may still have a soft spot for that _lunatic_ . . . which is why we need to go over his head. I _almost_ have enough signatures – yours is the last one I need to make it official,”

Isabella nodded, “Yuuri . . . he’s alright with this? This is really what he wants?” she asked cautiously.

J.J.’s eyes flashed with warning, “look, he told me to take care of it, so I’m _taking care of it_ ,” he hissed, “We present Lord Maire Marchand with this petition and he’ll order Nishigori to ship that loon off to the most secure mad-house in The City. Then we – I mean, _Yuuri_ – will never have to worry about him again. Considering what The Tinker’s done . . . I’d call it a mercy. Maybe there, he might even get the _help_ he so obviously _needs_ ,”

Isabella felt a lump form in her throat, but nodded her assent; she couldn’t argue with that logic.

She folded the petition back up and carefully slid it into the envelope; tucking the letter safely into the breast-pocket of her own crimson hunting jacket.

Her eyebrows knit together thoughtfully, “It’ll be a few days before the letter reaches The City. I suppose until then we’ll –”

“It doesn’t need to reach The City,” J.J. interrupted, “Lord Maire Marchand will be here for the wedding,”

Isabella blinked, “Look, I know you invited him as a formality, J.J. but . . . you don’t _honestly_ believe he’s travelling _all this way_ on such short notice? In _his_ condition?”

“Of course he is!” J.J. crowed, “He wouldn’t miss the wedding of _Alain Leroy’s_ only son! He was thrilled to get my invite! He wrote back saying he was already packed!”

Isabella nodded, “Alright,” she agreed softly, “then, I’ll sign this and make sure it gets to him before he leaves,” she hesitated only a moment, “any thoughts about . . . what to do with _her_?” she asked pointedly.

J.J. sighed, mulling over the question, “Well . . . we told everyone she left town . . . so, she’ll just have to _leave town_ , won’t she?”

Isabella hesitated, “J.J. . . .” she hedged, “You don’t mean –?”

“Of course not!” J.J. snapped imperiously, “First chance we get, we drag her out of town and put her on the fastest ship to the Eastern Coast. We’ll see her off with enough gold to last the week . . . and a _very clear_ idea what’ll happen if she _ever_ sets foot in this town again,”

Isabella frowned, “Y-you don’t think she’ll run straight to . . . _you know_ ,” she warned.

J.J. smiled; though not with joy, but with triumph.

“That monster will be long dead,” He purred, “I know where it’s hiding,”

“What? _How_?” Isabella demanded, shock and apprehension running through her veins, “You haven’t left Yuuri’s side! When did you have time to –?”

 “Stephan and Damien,” J.J. explained with a shrug, “Those two may be crass, but they were more than happy to join our little beast hunt . . . for a price,”

Betrayal slapped Isabella across the face, “you _told_ them?” she hissed, trying to keep the hurt from her voice, “J.J., what were you _thinking_? We can’t trust them with something like –”

“For the amount I’m paying them, we _can_ ,” J.J. interjected, “They’ve already done their part, now all they have to do is keep their mouths shut,”

Isabella’s face was blank, but her insides quivered, “and you really believe _those two_ have done a _proper_ job?”

J.J. rolled his eyes, “They may not be the _brightest_ guys, but we _both_ know they’re _damn good_ at what they do, Isabella. One quick little overnight expedition and they _found_ it. Right where the Tutor said –”

“So, _that’s_ why those assholes were so late today?” Isabella huffed incredulously, furious for a whole new reason now, “ _That’s_ why Marcel is in there brushing clumps of shit out of Damien’s hair and _I_ have to deal with –”

“I know you’re upset,” J.J. huffed, “but –”

Isabella pressed on, disregarding J.J.’s interruption, “I can’t believe this! Why didn’t you just send _me_ , J.J.? You know I would have –! Or at least _Marcel_ –”

 J.J. shook his head, unrepentant and resolute, “Marcel’s a skilled mark, but he’s soft” the hunter lamented, “He wouldn’t be able to . . . _do what needs to be done_. Not like Stephan and Damien. Not like you and I”.

Isabella let out a frustrated growl.

“Look, Isabella, _I needed you here with me_ , alright?” J.J. insisted; a half-apology dripping with excuses, “I couldn’t let you go traipsing off after that creature _all alone_ , could I? What if something had happened to you?”

The indignant rage inside Isabella quelled ever-so-slightly; she had to admit, it _was_ kind of _sweet_ for J.J. to worry over her – bitter and condescending though it was.

“Besides,” J.J. continued, “you’re the only other person I trust to keep Yuuri safe . . . the only other person who _understands_ . . .”

Isabella’s shoulders slumped in defeat; but again, she couldn’t argue.

She smothered her feelings and heaved a weary sigh, “Fine. Fine. I get it. I understand,” she surrendered, “just . . . just don’t keep shit from me, J.J.! This is too important –”

“I don’t! I won’t!” J.J. promised, eyes big and wide like a puppy; his grin flustered and nearly desperate as he stood there in his wedding suit.

Isabella blinked, finding her poise once again, “We’re behind schedule,” she finally relented, “You should get going,”

Suddenly coming back to himself, J.J. lit up with a cocky smile, “I’ll make it up to you!” he vowed, taking off towards the street.

“No, you won’t” Isabella sighed, rolling her eyes.

She was teasing. Mostly.

J.J. turned on his heel, walking backwards towards the street with a playful smile, “Tell the guys to get off their asses and come help me,” he called, “and . . . don’t bother Yuuri, alright? He needs, uh . . . peace and quiet. To relax. Yea. Yea, I think he’s got some wedding-day jitters or something”.

Isabella desperately tried not to gag, “Oui, oui, mon Capitaine!" she hollered sarcastically.

J.J.’s smirk grew wicked, “and put your dress on!” he teased, “You look _so pretty_ in it!”

Isabella ignored the way her heart skipped a beat.

She knew J.J. was only joking.

“Over _your_ dead body, Leroy,” she hollered instead.

J.J. laughed, and with a shake of his head, headed off down the lane.

 

*****

 

Phichit raced through the forest with reckless abandon; invisible to passersby and untouchable in his disguise. Luckily, the road was quiet and mostly deserted, save a poor traveller or two rumbling past on their way toward The Village.

Phichit paid them no mind as he cantered across the leagues.

Vicchan was getting tired; Phichit could feel it as the horse heaved beneath him.

They were almost to the hidden fork now, so Phichit slowed Vicchan to a trot; keeping his eyes peeled for the secret path.

He spied it only minutes later, urging Vicchan forward with his own panting breaths.

The mystical trail was the same as he remembered it; exactly the same, in fact – almost as if it was frozen in time. The noon day sun filtered through the canopy of dancing leaves, dappling the world with emerald light.

An eerie feeling began to creep up Phichit’s throat, and he firmly shoved it back down.

This feeling . . . it was the magic. Only the magic. Nothing more.

A little ways on, Vicchan began to slow even more; nervously stamping his hooves. The stallion knew _exactly_ where they had come to and protested Phichit’s commands to go any further.

“I know,” Phichit surrendered, patting the Shire’s flank, “I know Vicchan, but we _have to_ . . . for _Yuuri_ ,”

After much begging and bribery, Vicchan once again clomped slowly forward through the mossy undergrowth.

Phichit heaved a sigh of relief and held fast; alert and determined.

He flinched, as something cold kissed his cheek.

Phichit’s brow furrowed; an absent hand wiped across his face.

Snow?

Already?

But they’d _barely_ started down the path . . . surely they still had a ways to go before –

 _Mercy_.

The very breath was knocked from Phichit’s lungs as he and Vicchan rounded the next bend.

Before them, the forest stood frozen, as Phichit knew it would; but _now_ . . .

“ _What in the seven hells_?” Phichit cursed lowly, equal parts awe and dread.

The spritely winter world that Phichit had come to know was gone; changed from a tame December landscape of sunshine and sapphires to a barren battlefield of brittle bones and broken glass. The trees were encased in thick layers of ice, jagged edges along the branches nearly interlocking; forming a thicket of crystal daggers, through which even the bravest would fear to tread. Below, the snow had piled to Vicchan’s knees, pure white quicksand aching to devour the horse and rider; while above, the sky had turned grey, the clouds thick like the smog of a factory, wrapping the woods in a melancholy embrace.

Slowly, with trembling spatter dashes, Phichit urged Vichhan forward.

Snow sank beneath Vicchan’s heavy hooves, unsteady and feather-light, as icicle branches scraped at Phichit’s face; knocking his hat off as he went.

The chill was starting to numb his fingers, but inside, the inventor was all fire.

This . . . this was _madness_. The magic was _out of control_.

Was _this_ why Yuuri had come back?

Had some catastrophe befallen Nikiforov and the Enchanted Castle?

Had they . . . _run out of time_?

“H’ya! Vichhan, H’ya!” Phichit commanded with a soft kick, urging his steed onward into the cursed unknown.

The pair plowed through the foreboding forest of frost as nimbly as they were able, and after what seemed like an eternity, they reached the Magic Ice Gate.

Phichit’s stomach plummeted, seeing what had become of his one-time sanctuary.

The Ice Gate, while imposing before, had now morphed into something truly treacherous. The walls towered into the sky, higher than Phichit could measure; the smooth icy sheen of the wall’s face had cracked and warped and twisted, changing from an impassive guard into a glacial dragon. The icicle-like archer’s stakes – which previously only ringed the foot of the wall – had multiplied and grown; joined by rows upon rows of frosty chevaux de frise. The Gate itself hardly existed now, each side melted into a slouch, which had fused together to create a particularly insurmountable section of wall; all garish shanks and broken bottles, hard and sharp and jagged like a pile of broken saws.

Phichit dismounted, leading Vicchan carefully around the stakes and up to the ominous entryway.

Before, the gate had welcomed him; opening easily for the brothers to come and go as they pleased. Now, it stood stoic and impassive, like it didn’t even recognize him.

Or if it did, it didn’t care.

“Nikiforov!” Phichit hollered. The whipping wind robbed him of his volume, so he swallowed hard and tried again, “Nikiforov! It’s me! Phichit!”

Still the gate remained unmoved.

Phichit tried knocking, then kicking; his pants and spatter dashes soaked right though – his gloveless knuckles blue and blistered.

“ _Nikiforov_!” Phichit roared, tired and frozen and sick with worry, “Nikiforov, you let me in _THIS INSTANT_! _You hear me_? I am _not leaving_ until –”

Suddenly, the ground began to shake; Phichit braced himself, his arms wrapped like a bear-hug around the nearest spike.

Without warning, one side of the gate shook loose and toppled; crumbling beneath Phichit’s commands. Glittering splinters of ice rained down around Phichit’s head until it was all he could do to hold fast and wait it out.

Once the sleet finally settled, Phichit wasted no time; fighting to climb his way over the frozen debris and eventually coaxing Vicchan across the ruins in his wake.

Here, on the other side of the gate, the wind blew hard; howling at ear-splitting levels – so loud Phichit could hardly hear himself think. His face stung as pea-sized hail pelted his exposed skin.

He almost didn’t recognise the sturdy maple tree he had once run to for shelter; it had been split nearly in twain by merciless icicles, which now bloomed across its trunk and cut through its bark. It was frozen, petrified with fear, looking for all the world like a man stabbed in the back.

Phichit pulled himself up onto his loyal steed; hissing when a bit of sleet grazed the back of his hand hard enough to draw blood.

He suddenly wished he’d gone back for his hat.

Still, he and Vicchan pressed on, pushing against the wind, the hail, the snow, and the hidden caltrops of ice littering the branches and brambles of their route.

At last, Phichit crested the hill, gazing down upon the cathedral of ice and snow.

Where once crystal spires and sugary gardens had stood, was now an impenetrable fortress of sleet; a sad, lonely ruin encased in a wintry fist.

No diamonds glittered, no pearls shone, no lace trimmed the grounds – now there was only slate; slate and chalk and salt and shattered pieces of porcelain, rolled into a glacial prison. The windows were sealed over with frost; the stairs were buried in heavy snow, the parapets were slick and icy and shapeless, the towers all top-heavy and crumbling.

It looked like a place without hope. Bereft and abandoned, the castle had surrendered to the winter wasteland, becoming one with the wicked cold.

Phichit plowed on through the wind and the sleet; the remorseless gale stinging his eyes and whipping at his disguise as he desperately tried to guide his poor steed.

The oppressive grey sky suffocated Phichit as he fought to breathe in the frigid air. Vicchan held fast; plowing ahead through the dunes of snow, which now reached as high as his flank.

Finally, the two were in the shadow of the Castle. After an age of struggling up the stairs atop makeshift hills of sifting snow, they finally came to rest in front of the dark, massive doors.

The wind was not so terrible here, nor was the hail; the walls of the castle providing at least a little shelter.

Phichit couldn’t feel his fingers or toes, or even his face; though he wasn’t certain if he should attribute that to the freezing temperature or his own rushing adrenaline.

To his dismay, the front doors had been frozen shut; a great, thick layer of ice plastered wetly overtop them. The snow had plied so high that when Phichit dismounted and stood, the antique door knockers were now at his waist.

Phichit looked around wildly.

He had to get inside.

Alright, think.

 _Think_ . . .

Door.

Door, ice.

Door, ice . . . horse?

Phichit sighed in resignation, trying not to inhale too much of the scorching air.

He took Vicchan’s reins, pointing the shire horse away from the door, to face the decimated promenade instead.

“Sorry boy,” Phichit murmured, “I promise I’ll make this up to you,”

Without further hesitation, Phichit gave the horse a firm whack on his hindquarters; immediately diving out of the way.

With a blood-curdling bray, Vicchan bucked, kicking backwards against the sealed door. The impact reverberated impossibly loud; rattling Phichit’s already chattering teeth as a maelstrom of ice broke free of the door and plummeted to the ground.

But Vicchan wasn’t done; furious and afraid, the stallion continued to bray and kick and stamp and pommel; a thousand pounds of equine fury raining down upon the unsuspecting structure.

At last, Vicchan had kicked himself tired, and Phichit rose from his cover.

When all was said and done, the ice had been cleared, leaving the door itself much worse for wear; but Vicchan had kicked it loose – kicked it open enough so that when Phichit leaned his weight against it, he easily tumbled into the grand entryway.

Phichit fell to his knees, arms outstretched on the marble floor; sucking in lungfuls of lukewarm air like a starving man in the desert.

Vicchan trotted in behind him haughtily; shaking hail from his mane and scattering the icy beads across the floor with a clatter.

 Phichit felt no remorse; Vicchan deserved to rest – to be warm and safe and dry, after everything the noble steed had suffered.

But Phichit wasn’t done yet; not by a long shot.

“NIKIFOROV!” He roared, still shaking on his hands and knees; fingers, toes and face tingling as the weak heat of the castle caressed his frosty skin, “NIKIFOROV! MINAKO? ANYONE!”

“ _PHICHIT_?”

The inventor’s eyes snapped up, spying a very distressed candelabrum lurking on the staircase landing.

“ _CHRISTOPHE_!” Phichit gasped, heaving a breath as he scrambled to his feet, “oh _thank mercy_!” Phichit’s frozen feet tripped up the stairs as he raced towards the formerly friendly face.

He fell hard onto his elbows.

“ _WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED_?”

Phichit blinked as Christophe scowled; both had cried out in unison, their words hanging precariously in the air between them.

Nerves churned in Phichit’s gut as he scrambled to make sense of the situation.

“Yuuri . . . getting married . . .” He panted at last, eyes wide and frenzied as he gazed up at the frigid Maître D’.

“Believe me,” Christophe scoffed, “We’re _painfully_ aware. The mirror showed him _everything_ ,”

With a heartbreaking frown, the candelabrum began to turn away.

“ _We have to stop it_!”

Phichit bit his lip in an almost perfect imitation of his brother; Christophe slowly turned back around.

“W-what?” The Maître D’ gasped, speechless for the first time in his life, “Why do you –?”

“Chris! Are you alright? I heard screaming! What’s going on? What’s happened?” a harried feather duster floated down the stairway on the right, coming to rest at Christophe’s side.

He froze the instant his dark wooden eyes landed on Phichit.

“Wh-what is the meaning of this?” The feather duster demanded, “Chris –?”

“Ah, Master _Chulanont_ ,” a harsh voice boomed from the top left stair, “ _To what do we owe the pleasure_?”

The frosty words tightened around Phichit’s heart as he gaped up into the face of a furious redwood mantle clock.

“Y-Yakov, right?” Phichit sputtered, pushing himself upright, “Please, you have to get Master Nikiforov! We have to help –”

“ _Who the hell is making so much noise out here_?”

A shiver shot up Phichit’s spine; he recognized that voice too.

With a deep breath, he steeled his resolve; ignoring his aching limbs as he slowly turned around to acknowledge the furious little teacup.

But to Phichit’s surprise, it wasn’t alone; at the foot of the stairs, a whole crowd of animated objects had congregated . . . and they were all glaring daggers at him.

There was the teacup, of course, and the dog-stool, but the rest Phichit only vaguely recognized; a purple fan, a handkerchief, a letter opener, a herald’s horn. Bringing up the rear was a stout and sturdy teapot, whose design matched that of the venomous little china cup, who was currently in the midst of cussing him out.

“ _– the fuck do you think you’re doing here? You’ve got a lot of nerve coming back after what Katsudon did_! _Get the hell out_! _NOW_! _And don’t even think of showing your sorry face around –_ ”

Phichit’s mind was as numb as his fingers, but all the same, he pushed himself to his feet.

From his stately new vantage, the little baubles didn’t seem quite so intimidating.

“ _WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM_?” Phichit roared, grasping for the last lingering threads of his sanity, as adrenaline took the reins of his tongue, “I almost _died_ getting here, so _someone_ better tell me what’s going on, _RIGHT NOW_! _Where’s Minako_? What’s this about a _‘mirror’_? Why did Yuuri leave? How come the castle is so out of control? And what in Mercy’s name does _katsudon_ have to do with _anything_?”

“It’s all your _stupid brother’s_ fault!” The teacup howled, “He ruined _everything_!”

Phichit froze, completely taken aback.

It was hard to tell with the porcelain visage, but it looked like the little brat was on the verge of tears.

Phichit didn’t believe it; Yuuri _couldn’t_ – Yuuri _wouldn’t_ –

He fumbled for words, wracking his brain for some sort of explanation, when a soft, resigned voice came to Yuuri’s defense.

“That isn’t – _strictly speaking_ – true,” Christophe interjected, looking up at Phichit with wary interest now, rather than outright scorn.

“He really didn’t have much of a choice,” the feather duster agreed forlornly.

Yakov sighed, “Our _beloved Prince_ isn’t exactly _innocent_ in all this, either” he grudgingly supplied.

“Oh, _spare me_ ,” The teacup growled, stomping up the stairs until he was snarling right at Phichit’s feet, “I’m tired of all these _excuses_! Your _idiot brother_ _BROKE VIKTOR’S HEART_ and now _we’re all fucking doomed_!”

“ _Prince_? Broke his . . ?” Phichit repeated, his wavering voice echoing through the hollow entryway, “ _d-doomed_?”

The staff looked to one another mournfully, none daring to speak.

Phichit gasped, his eyebrows shooting up as he cried out in realization, “THE SPELL!”

So _that’s_ why Yuuri –

And the MAGIC –

It was –

The cogs and gears of Phichit’s methodical brain suddenly whirred to life; his epiphany overriding the trepidation of his tongue and the pounding of his heart and the pain in his digits

“Wait. Okay. So, let me get this straight. ‘ _Viktor_ ’ – that’s ‘the Beast’, right? Okay, okay, so Viktor is _actually_ a ‘Prince’ _and_ he’s in love with Yuuri? But something _happened_ . . . something happened to make Yuuri leave, and now he’s engaged to J.J., so Viktor is heartbroken . . . and the spell is getting worse,” Phichit rambled, brisk and monotone, like he always did when he was on to something, “and the spell is getting worse, _because_. . ?”

Phichit stopped short; the answer he’d been obsessing over these many moons perched precariously on the tip of his tongue, “because of . . . _love_ ,”

All the air in Phichit’s lungs vanished as he stood there on the grand staircase, numb and hollow and surrounded by furious trinkets, “. . . because . . . the only way to break the spell is . . . _true love_!”

The staff all gaped up at him now; wide eyes betraying confusion and concern.

Phichit slapped a hand over his eyes, cursing himself; _Mercy_ , how could they have been so _stupid_?

Love.

True love.

Just like every Fairy Story ever told since the dawn of time.

Phichit sighed, his hand sliding slowly from his face.

He could barely do more than blink.

Love.

 _LOVE_.

So then –

What went wrong?

Did that mean –?

“Does he –” Phichit ventured, voice cracking like eggshells, “Yuuri, is he – does he . . . feel the same way?”

A vice tightened around Phichit’s heart; he braced himself, not entirely certain what answer he wanted to hear.

“ _Yes_ ,”

The reply rang clear throughout the empty halls.

Phichit’s eyes dropped in search of who had spoken; coming to rest on the sanctimonious feather duster.

“He _does_. I _know_ he does,” the duster insisted ruefully, “he practically told me so himself. They were –”

He stopped abruptly, swallowing hard. The candelabrum pulled him into a shallow hug.

“. . . They _almost_ broke the spell,” Christophe finished gravely.

Phichit swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut; fighting to keep himself together, despite the mad, impossible truth attempting to tear him limb from limb.

Just his luck; trust The Mad Tinker, Phichit Chulanont, to expose the existence of an enchanted Beast . . . and trust The Mysterious Playboy, Katsuki Yuuri to then turn around and _fall in love with it_.

Dumbfounding as it all was, Phichit had to admit, he really should have seen this coming; this was _Yuuri_ he was dealing with, after all.

Alright.

So.

The good news was; now Phichit knew what side he was on.

The bad news was; he still didn’t know what to do about it.

“Alright,” Phichit sighed, his mind once more turning over answers, “alright, alright, alright, alright, so then . . . why did Yuuri leave? What do we do about the spell? _Where the hell is Minako_? And _why in the name of all things merciful_ is my brother engaged to that _monster_ , _Jean Jacques Leroy_?”

Phichit spit the name like a curse.

Christophe looked from Phichit to the feather duster to the clock to the teacup. When no one else stirred, the candelabrum took a deep breath.

“I can’t speak as to our dear Mademoiselle Okukawa,” Christophe began lowly, “ _or_ what will become of the spell. But the rest . . . the rest I _can_ tell you,” he offered with a grimace, “though I warn you, mon chou . . . it’s _not_ a pleasant tale,”

Phichit nodded, stern and resolute; he’d expected as much.

“Tell me on the way,” Phichit instructed, “. . . _I need to speak with your Master”_

 

*****

 

Isabella didn’t move a muscle; feet planted, face grim, staring down her greatest opponent yet.

The dress mocked her, laid out across the bed in the Master suite; a garish lilac monstrosity with satin ruffles, lace trim, and a thousand frilly petticoats. The metal hoop and corset were wrapped precariously around a headless dress stand, looking for all the world like some sort of archaic torture device.

Isabella frowned.

Nope, not happening.

Not even for J.J.

Serves him right for keeping secrets.

Isabella left the room in a huff.

She wandered down the homey corridor, all pine and plaster and hand-painted sceneries; as familiar as her own heartbeat.

Maybe she could dash home and grab her navy riding jacket instead; that was at least a bit more formal . . .

Besides, J.J. wouldn’t pay her any notice today, she was certain.

She slowed to a stop as she passed the guestroom; an eerie chill creeping up her spine.

The door was still shut tight; just as it had been all day.

Isabella watched it warily, like a wild animal.

Yuuri hadn’t said a single word to her since his return. In fact, he’d barely said anything to anyone; remaining tight-lipped and downcast throughout the planning, the fittings, the tastings – even the engagement party! He seemed . . . _mournful_ almost; not at all the careless, artsy Playboy she had grown to despise.

It made her uneasy, seeing him like that; hollow and resigned, like his very spirit had been broken. Truth be told, she had been avoiding him; maintaining a cool, wary distance from the grave dancer and his shadowed eyes.

Guilt prickled at Isabella’s chest; The Beast must be truly monstrous indeed, to have put dreamy, doe-eyed _Katsuki Yuuri_ into such a state.

What had that thing _done_ to him?

Isabella supposed she didn’t really want to know.

She stared at the guestroom door, conflicted; much as he didn’t want to _see_ the man, let alone _speak_ to him, she really _should_ check in on him.

J.J. had said he might be nervous, to leave him alone . . .

But, perhaps ‘alone’ wasn’t the best way for Katsuki to be right now . . . and besides, they couldn’t wait on him forever.

They had a wedding to get to.

Isabella sighed and steeled her resolve.

Fine.

She would check in on Yuuri right now, and then go put on that damn circus tent of a dress.

Simple. Easy. Five seconds. In and out. Done and done.

Her knuckles rapped across the pine before she could talk herself out of it.

No reply.

She knocked again; harsher, more impatient this time.

No reply.

Isabella groaned, “Katsuki? How’s it going in there?”

No reply.

Worry fluttered in her ribs.

“Katsuki?” She barked, “Are you decent? I’m coming –”

“Come in,”

Yuuri’s soft, subdued greeting echoed overtop her own words.

Isabella swallowed hard and opened the door.

The guestroom was cozy; warm and full of sunshine. The little double bed had been made with care, the room spotless and unlived in. Yuuri’s amethyst-coloured wedding suit was still spread out across the bed, much like Isabella’s own purple petticoats. The curtains of the little room had been drawn back, white linen fluttering in the slight breeze.

Yuuri gazed out the window, over J.J.’s expansive back yard, taking in the view; the lawn, the dirt walking trail, a thick copse of trees, the river tributary and the fields beyond, where the horizon rolled up to kiss the cloudless sky.

His back was turned towards her.

He was dressed in the same filthy breeches and waistcoat he’d worn the night he had returned.

He didn’t turn to greet her.

Isabella cleared her throat awkwardly.

“It’s getting late,” she managed eventually; proud of how calm and emotionless her voice was.

Yuuri’s shoulders slumped, “I know”

Little flares of guilt and sympathy and jealousy sparked simultaneously through Isabella’s veins.

Sure, Katsuki had been through hell, but he didn’t have to be so damn _dramatic_ about it, did he? For mercy’s sake, the guy was treating his own wedding like a death sentence.

You’d think he could at least mange a _little_ smile . . .

“Well, we can’t leave until you’re dressed, so . . .” Isabella huffed, snippy and defensive and extremely ill-at-ease.

Slowly, Yuuri turned to look at her; smooth and graceful like the dancer he was. Leading with his shoulder he rolled his whole body around until they were facing one another; coming to rest against the windowsill despondently.

He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped instantly; his brows knitting together quizzically as his bespectacled eyes settled on her.

“Hey! Y-you’re not dressed either!” He suddenly squawked. His outburst seemed to catch even himself by surprise; his voice cracking over the sentiment. It was so brittle and garish and unfailingly human that, for a moment, Isabella almost forgot to hate him.

They’d been equally miserable at the tailor’s yesterday morning; both Yuuri and herself scowling at the pleated purple monstrosities which had caught J.J.’s eye. Though, _why_ Katsuki would point out such a thing now, of all times, Isabella had no idea.

“So?” she challenged, crossing her arms, “What do you care? Get dressed already, J.J.’s waiting,”

Yuuri’s face crumbled, returning to the blank visage he’d been sporting for the last two days.

The dancer’s eyes dropped to his feet, “Right,” he murmured, “Sorry. I’ll just be a minute then,”

Isabella nodded and turned to leave; but Yuuri’s soft, reticent voice stopped her.

“Is there still time for me to see Phichit?”

Nerves fluttered between Isabella’s ribs; J.J.’s petition weighing heavy like a stone in her breast-pocket.

She slowly swivelled back around, “What?”

Yuuri was biting his lip, “It’s just – J.J. _promised_ – well, he said there _might_ be. And the Gaol’s right in the square, so . . .”

To Isabella’s great confusion, he almost sounded _hopeful_.

She swallowed hard, “No. I don’t know,” she snapped, “Depends how long you take. Ask J.J. when we get there,”

Something strange and unfamiliar itched at the back of Isabella’s mind.

Why on earth would J.J. promise him something like that?

She had no idea what the dancer was after – closure or vengeance – but allowing him to reopen old wounds with his backstabbing brother absolutely did _not_ seem like a good idea; especially hours before his own wedding.

Yuuri sighed, “I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then” he replied bitterly.

Isabella’s eyes narrowed, her brows curling into a deep, disappointed ‘v’.

She very nearly growled; the _mercy-forsaken attitude_ on this boy –

Sure, Katsuki was upset. Fair enough. He deserved to be.

And sure, J.J. warned her that the dancer might have cold feet . . . but _this_ was ridiculous! 

Yuuri was _home_ , he was _safe_ , he was about to _marry J.J._ – shouldn’t he be _happy_? Or at least _grateful_?

After everything J.J. had done for him; hell, after everything _she_ had done for him, Katsuki Yuuri still had the nerve to stand there and act like . . .

Like . . ?

Well, however he was acting; it was _rude_ to say the least.

If this man was going to be J.J.’s husband; to have him and hold him in sickness and in health for the rest of their lives, then Isabella was going to make _damn sure_ he knew _just how lucky he was_.

And she would make it _crystal clear_ that if he _ever_ hurt J.J. . . . then the Beast would be the _least_ of his worries.

“You have _no idea_ how much J.J. loves you, _do you, Katsuki_?” she snapped.

Yuuri’s eyes narrowed behind the blue frames of his glasses; frigid and furious.

The last time they’d met, Isabella had crushed those frames beneath the heal of her shiny black hunting boots.

It had been callous, and it had been petty, and in the end it hadn’t made her point; so _this time_ , she would use her _words_ . . . and if she had to _spell it out_ in order for the spineless sap to finally understand, then _so be it_.

“I get it, alright?” Isabella huffed, “You’re upset about your brother and you’re upset about the Beast and everything and that’s fine but . . . but, that’s all over now, isn’t it? You and J.J. have your whole lives to . . . ugh!”

Yuuri’s glare deepened into a scowl; he looked like he was about to object, but Isabella pressed on, “Look,” She snapped, “Nobody expected things to turn out this way, alright? But, just because this isn’t _exactly_ what you wanted, doesn’t mean it can’t be something _good_. J.J. may not be the man of your dreams, he may not be some foppish, smooth-talking City boy, or whatever the hell you wanted before everything went to shit . . . but he’s the best man I know. He _loves_ you, Katsuki . . . so can’t you _just_ . . ?” Isabella’s eyes and arms fell as she ran out of steam, “just . . . stop being so damn _difficult_? For _one_ night? For _J.J._? _Please_?”

Yuuri said nothing.

When Yuuri continued to say nothing, Isabella forced her eyes to meet his.

The dancer’s expression had changed; though it was not defensive or repentant or contrite, as she had hoped, but surprisingly curious; calm, and a little bit pensive.

Yuuri’s eyes went soft, and his lips tilted up in a sad little half-smile, “You’re in love with him,” he said simply.

It wasn’t a question.

The observation filtered through the sunny space between them, settling like dust over Isabella’s bones.

She raised an incredulous eyebrow; _mercy’s flaming asshole_ , Katsuki really _was_ oblivious . . .

Or . . . was he _mocking_ her?

“Wow,” She drawled sarcastically, “you figure that one out all on your own, genius?”

Yuuri pressed on, ignoring the jibe; his entire countenance shifted from hostile to sympathetic in the span of a second, “does he know?”

Isabella’s shoulders grew tense as the question whizzed around the room; Yuuri watched her with wide, eager eyes, completely unaware what turmoil those simple words had awakened.

Isabella cursed herself; she should have just denied it and kept her mouth shut.

“What kind of stupid question is that?” she scoffed, “J.J. has been in love with you forever. You two are getting _married_ –”

“So, you haven’t told him –?”

“It doesn’t matter,”

“You-you should tell him –”

“Don’t be an idiot –”

“You need to _tell him_ –”

“And _you_ need to _shut up_ and _get dressed_ ,” Isabella thundered; her hands curled into fists as she forced herself to calm down.

Damn that Katsuki Yuuri; who did he think he was, toying with her like that?

Yuuri swallowed hard, slinking over to the bed; now having the decency to at least look chastised. He slowly picked up the amethyst tailcoat, twisting the garish material between his fingers.

“So _that’s_ why you’ve never liked me,” The dancer murmured; his voice was quiet, but it didn’t waver.

Isabella rolled her eyes, “don’t flatter yourself,” she huffed, “it’s not just that. There are lots of things to hate about you,”

Then, Katsuki laughed.

He . . . he actually laughed; a small, sad little chortle as his eyes raked over the coat in his hands.

“You . . . you _really_ care about him, don’t you?”

The dancer’s question was soft and incredulous; Yuuri still didn’t look up at her.

Something in his tone resonated with Isabella; something soft and sad and vulnerable.

“Yea, so what?” she confessed acidly, leaning sideways against the doorframe.

Yuuri nodded, seeming somewhere far away.

Isabella cleared her throat, “It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to worry about me ‘ _ruining the happiest day of your life_ ’ or whatever. I mean, J.J. – he’s not just ‘some guy I happen to fancy’, you know – he’s my _best friend_. All I want is for him to be happy . . . and for some _stupid_ reason, _you_ make him happy. He _loves_ you . . . so, for his sake, I’m _trying_ to be nice here. But if you _ever_ hurt him, I’ll break more than your glasses, understand?”

Her threats fluttered limply to the floor.

The silence settled over them; a heavy shadow determined to dim the sunny room.

Suddenly, Yuuri tossed his suit jacket back onto the bad.

“. . . he doesn’t”.

“What?”

Isabella’s eyes snapped up; Yuuri’s gaze was sharp and serious and more alive than she’d ever seen.

“J.J. _doesn’t_ love me,”

“Are you seriously that _thick_ –?”

“He _thinks_ he does. He _says_ he does. But he _doesn’t_ , Isabella”

“Have you lost your mind?” Isabella warned, “Do you have _any_ idea what he went through to –”

“Would you just _listen_?” Yuuri snarled, stopping Isabella dead in her tracks.

Isabella squared her shoulders and straightened up; she’d never seen Katsuki snarl before. Hell, she didn’t even know Katsuki _could_ snarl.

“Look, Isabella,” Yuuri entreated, his voice soft and sorrowful once more, “I – I _know_ that J.J. is _interested_ in me . . . and sure, he says and does all these big, fancy things, but that isn’t _enough_. That isn’t _love_.”

Isabella scoffed, “Alright, clearly that Beast knocked a few screws loose,” she countered, “not that you were ever really ‘all there’ to begin with – but J.J. _devoted_ himself to rescuing you. He _refused to rest_ until he found you and brought you home safe. That’s love if I’ve ever seen it. I mean, _damn it Katsuki_! What more could you possibly want?”

“ _Love_. _True love_ ,”

There was something in Katsuki’s eyes; something mournful and desperate that halted Isabella’s objections before they could become words.

“I-I never asked J.J. to come after me,” Yuuri pressed, open and insistent, “He did that on his own. _He_ made that choice. Not for me, for  _himself_. And . . . and _that’s not love_ ,”

Isabella’s chest ached, but her face remained impassive. It took every ounce of her restraint not to lash out; the dancer’s words unsettling her more than any beast ever could.

Yuuri swallowed hard and rambled on, “Love . . . it isn’t just a feeling. Attraction and desire and infatuation – those are _feelings_. But _love_ is _more_ than that. Love is a _choice_. Love is an _agreement_. Love means being willing to _listen_ and _trust_ and _try_. Love means knowing someone inside and out; the way they smile, their favourite foods, their most cherished possessions, their friends and family. Love means supporting their dreams and understanding their fears and sharing their pain. Love means accepting someone as they are and forgiving their mistakes. Love is _difficult_. It takes _effort_ ; it means _working_ to build a future _with_ someone else. Love is demanding; it means _compromise_ and _sacrifice_. It _challenges_ you. It _changes_ you. It makes you _stronger_. It makes you . . . _better_ ,”

Yuuri looked up at Isabella, certain, unwavering, “ _That’s_ what love is. I know it. I’ve _felt_ it. But _this_ . . . the way J.J. feels about me, the way he acts, the things he says . . . _it’s not the same_. It’s not _love_. For mercy’s sake, Isabella – J.J. doesn’t even know what colour my eyes are!”

Isabella huffed and tried to stand firm; but the itch was back, that creeping doubt that refused to rest at the back of her mind.

“Oh _please_ ,” she scoffed, crossing her arms, “As if _anyone_ can go more than a day in this town without hearing about ‘Katsuki Yuuri’s _big beautiful brown eyes_ ’! You’d think the whole damn world revolved around them,”

 “Is that so?” Yuuri challenged, “Well then . . . go ask J.J. yourself. I _guarantee_ he won’t know,”

The back of Isabella’s neck grew hot as she struggled to find a retort.

This . . . this didn’t make any sense.

What was Katsuki _doing_? Trying to talk himself out of the wedding?

Was it nerves, like J.J. said?

Or did he just want to watch Isabella squirm?

Dread began to creep up her spine.

Something was wrong here.

“So? What’s your point?” She barked, all sparking nerves and fraying patience, “Why are you telling _me_ this?”

Yuuri sank down onto the bed, defeated, “Look, I know you don’t like me,” he sighed, “and to be perfectly candid, Isabella, I don’t much care for you either . . . but I do believe you’re better than this,”

Isabella glared; but only to keep the confusion off her face.

What was Katsuki even _talking_ about?

Better than _what_?

The dancer continued, “So I just . . . I thought you should know. In case you wanted to . . . say something to J.J.? While you still can? Consider it a truce,”

Isabella swallowed hard, trying to find her footing.

Yuuri seemed sincere enough, but . . . something was still _off_.

 

“Yea, that’s real decent of you and everything,” she drawled, “but, not happening, Katsuki,”

Yuuri’s spirit faded once more.

Apprehension flared to life in Isabella’s veins; she scowled.

What the hell was that _frown_ for?

Why was Katsuki –?

Ugh! What did he _want_ from her?

Without warning, Yuuri’s voice rippled through the sunshine.

“Can I ask you something?”

Oh great.

Isabella raised an eyebrow in response.

“Just . . . just one more thing, and then I’ll drop it. Forever. I promise,”

Isabella rolled her eyes.

Then she shrugged.

Yuuri bit his lip, collecting his thoughts, “Do you . . .” the dancer cleared his throat nervously, “do you think J.J. would still go through with this? If he knew? W-would he still marry me, even if he knew how much it hurt you?”

The world beyond the guestroom disappeared; the universe narrowing to a single speck of dust drifting through the sunlight.

Isabella couldn’t breathe; her heart stopped beating in her chest.

Wh- _what the hell kind of question was that_?

Why was Katsuki so –? Ugh!

What did it _matter_?

Why did he even _care_?

Isabella crossed her arms and said nothing, ignoring the quiver in her lip as she glared past the dancer, out the window; firmly avoiding his gaze.

What the hell did Katsuki know about anything? What was he trying to play at? _Of course_ J.J. would –

Well, he _wouldn’_ t. But he –

Or-or he _might_ –

Isabella tried to stay firm, to hold fast; but wicked little doubts began burrowing into her gut.

She honestly didn’t know.

Dread wrapped around her throat and started squeezing hard.

She didn’t know.

Not for sure.

Not anymore.

J.J. had been acting so _different_ lately; sneaking around, keeping things from her, praising _Stephan Boucher_ , brooding, pouting, obsessing . . . and his temper was so out of control these days; worse than she’d ever seen it, in fact.

True, that could all be attributed to the stress of their current . . . ‘ _situation_ ’.

But . . . but then what about J.J.’s petition?

It burned like a brand, still nestled right next to her heart.

Yuuri hated his brother, right? Never wanted to see him again, right? Had told J.J. to ‘take care of it’, right?

 _Right_?

Then why did he want to –?

Why had he asked her about –?

The silence settled all around; determined to turn them both to stone. 

“You . . . you should really get dressed now,” Isabella finally replied; stilted and squeaky.

The dancer deflated, nodding forlornly, “that’s what I thought,” he whispered, so soft Isabella wasn’t even certain she’d heard it.

Yuuri stood to dress; Isabella turned to leave.

“For what it’s worth . . .” Yuuri called after her, “J.J. would be _lucky_ to have you,”

Isabella did not turn back.

He spoke again anyway.

“I made my choice, Isabella . . . but you can still make yours.”

The dancer’s voice was gentle . . . almost even friendly.

Isabella launched herself out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

She stood there a moment, hollow and dazed.

 _What the hell just happened_?

Isabella stared down the hall to the master suite, but her feet refused to move.

What was she doing? She didn’t have time for this! She should be marching herself in there right now and strapping herself into that –

With a jolt, Isabella turned towards the stairs.

Her movements were empty, light and hollow and automatic as she descended into the kitchen, crossed the sitting room and walked out the door.

She hardly registered Marcel’s voice ringing out after her.

“Isabella? Isabella! Hey! Where are you going?”

“Just – give me a minute!” she called back numbly, “stay here with Yuuri,”

Not that it mattered anymore.

Or maybe . . . maybe it still did?

Isabella strode down the street; eyes set on the Town Square.

Today her best friend was getting married.

It was the happiest day of his life.

Soon the Beast would be gone; The Beast and the Tinker and The Tutor too.

The future was bright; nothing ahead but smooth sailing and sunny skies . . .

. . . So why did she feel like she was trapped in the eye of the storm?

 

*****

 

White gossamer curtains hung limply over frozen windows; weightless and insubstantial as cobwebs.

Frost crept across the floor, little cracks and canyons along a landscape of polished marble.

Rich upholstery turned to rough burlap, embroidered finery to filthy rags, golden ornaments to tarnished brass.

The gilded chamber, once a hallowed sanctuary, had become a lonely graveyard.

All light had been banished.

All hope had fled.

Life and love had vanished, leaving only sorrow and dread.

An enchanted rose stood on a little iron side table.

A Beast barricaded himself beneath silk bed sheets.

The rose was turning to ice one more.

It had started to fade the instant Yuuri left the Castle; and the longer he’d been gone, the worse it had become. At first, the frost had claimed it slowly . . . then suddenly consumed it all at once, as Viktor had watched Yuuri bargain away his freedom within the icy confines of the magic mirror.

_“No! J.J., please, I’ll do anything!”_

Viktor had tried to restrain himself after Yuuri’s departure; resolving not to use the mirror to indulge his misery. He vowed to check on Yuuri only once – maybe twice – a day; just to see how his beloved fared.

He had broken his rule almost instantly, of course; begging the mirror to show Yuuri to him three separate times before the dancer had even made it home. In the end, he’d caved entirely, clinging to the mirror like a security blanket. He tracked Yuuri’s progress for hours on end, thinking there was surely no harm in watching; trying to believe he was like a loyal guardian, rather than a desperate romantic who fell to pieces without his better half.

And then –

_“Just one little word, Yuuri . . . that’s all it takes”._

Viktor saw the whole terrible scene unfold with his own two weeping eyes.

What a fool he’d been.

Viktor was already knee-deep in heartache, having watched Yuuri race home alone and afraid, weep into the charred remains of the workshop, and crawl through the dirt in search of wayward mice. It had torn Viktor to shreds; sitting there all alone in his chamber, cursing the leagues between them and his own infuriating impotence.

And then _he_ had shown up – the man in the red jacket – and ruined _everything_ with a mere whisper of words.

Heartbroken, Viktor had sealed himself inside his snowy tomb; but even now, he could not escape his grief.

_“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had feelings for this monster,”_

_“– I would have preferred it if you had been bewitched –”_

_“All torn up over some worthless Beast . . .”_

_“This is for your own good”_

_“– never leave The Village again”._

Viktor couldn’t stand it – the way this man had spoken to Yuuri; the way he had _treated_ him, the way he had _touched_ him, the way he had _looked_ at him.

It made him wish he _had_ been there – in all his _Beastly_ glory – to show this “J.J.” just how ‘ _vicious_ ’ he could be.

But . . . he hadn’t been.

He’d been right here.

Alone in his room.

Helplessly watching as the most precious boy in the world sacrificed his freedom and future . . . for a _Beast_.

The guilt was unbearable.

Viktor tried to convince himself that it wasn’t his fault; that he couldn’t have gone with Yuuri, and even had he been able to, he only would have made things worse.

_“Please! J.J., just – just, please, don’t hurt him!”_

Yuuri’s pained cry tore Viktor’s heart out; soul-crushing and repetitive as it echoed through the ruins of his memory.

Greif and fury warred inside him; clashing with swords of shame and spears of loathing.

But worse by far, was the regret.

It repulsed Viktor, how easily J.J. had been able to tell Yuuri that he loved him.

J.J. had let his affections flow like a raging waterfall; “I love you”, “I love you”, “I love you,” “marry me”, “marry me”, “marry me”, over and over and over again until Viktor gagged with it.

J.J.’s devotion had been impossible to silence . . . while his own still remained a secret.

_“I love you”_

_“– All I’ve ever wanted is you; to marry you, and keep you by my side, and make you happy forever –”_

_“Let me show you how good our life together could be”_

 All the things Viktor had ever wanted to say . . . every sweet sentiment he’d ever ached to bestow upon Yuuri himself, spewed forth from J.J.’s callous lips; taunting him, teasing him, tormenting him, until he could no longer bear the sight of his own reflection, and shattered the magic mirror in his rage.

It sickened Viktor that now, for the rest of his life, Yuuri would only ever hear such sweet words from the mouth of such a desperate, twisted man.

It sickened him that such a person would have Yuuri by his side every day for the rest of his life, and never once understand the vastness of the treasure he held.

It sickened him . . . that he himself had never told Yuuri how he felt.

That he’d never told Yuuri that he loved him.

And now, Yuuri would never know.

Viktor cursed his cowardice; his coldness, his trepidation, his fear, his excuses, his complacency . . .

He should have said it before Yuuri left; before he stepped into the waiting snow-carriage.

He should have said it that same morning; when Yuuri roused from his slumber.

He should have said it the night before; at the ball, outside on the veranda.

He should have said it when they’d argued in the library; should have said it after Yuuri had his panic attack, should have said it when he gifted Yuri the ballroom, should have said it when Chris locked them in the pantry, should have said it the very first time they’d walked through the gardens.

He should have said it at dance practice, in his parlor, at dinner; as soon as he’d known, before he’d been ready, in-between breaths and around every heartbeat.

He should have said it the moment they’d met. 

He should have said it every chance he got, over and over and over again; should have played and replayed the song of his heart until the very _concept_ of silence was but a distant memory. Should have proven it; should have shouted it from the ramparts and written it in the clouds and proclaimed it in every language he knew; once, twice, a thousand times, until Yuuri wore his affections like a crown, until “I love you” was the home that they lived in and the air that they breathed. He should have said it every morning, every afternoon, every night; every minute of every day until they finally grew old and grey, until the sun burned out and the sea dried up and the earth fell to pieces.

But he hadn’t.

And now, he never would.

He would never see Yuuri again.

Another breath of frost ghosted across the rose.

Now, the enchanted flower was almost completely devoid of colour; a pretty crystal ornament teetering on a lonely iron side table.

Only one red petal remained.

Little veins of ice spider-webbed across it; marring the hopeful surface.

Viktor pulled the covers tighter.

Soon . . . it would all be over.

Perhaps . . . he should just stop fighting it now.

Perhaps . . . he was meant to be alone.

Perhaps . . . he was better off this way.

_'KA-FLOOMPH BANG CRASH'_

Viktor hardly flinched as his chamber doors came crashing open.

“RISE AND SHINE, NIKIFOROV! WE’VE GOT A WEDDING TO STOP!”

Viktor’s brows furrowed; he recognized that voice.

 _Phichit_?

But . . . how?

“UP AND AT ‘EM, LOVER BOY!” Phichit hollered, irreverently yanking back the covers.

Then, light flooded the chamber as the curtains were tied back; glaring white, fighting its way through the snowy balcony windows.

“P-Phichit?” Viktor stammered, blinking against the sun, “w-what are you –?”

As the room came into focus, he discovered that they were not alone.

Yakov, Chris, Masumi, Yuri, Otabek, Mila, Sara, Minami, Nikolai, Makka . . . they had all barged in alongside Phichit.

“Come on! Chop, chop, your highness! We’re losing daylight!” Phichit scolded, crossing his arms and glaring down at Viktor like a schoolboy late for class.

“B-but . . .” Viktor objected, trying to get his bearings, “Y-you’re in prison!”

Phichit rolled his eyes, “I very clearly am _not_ ,” he replied tersely.

Viktor sat up and shook his mane, “B-but you were –! What happened? Are you alright? And your workshop! How did you –?”

Phichit sighed, “Look, I wasn’t actually _arrested_ , alright? I just have a teeny tiny little _feud_ going with this guy in town named _J.J._ – I _believe_ you may be _familiar_ with him? Anyway, some things were said, some feelings were hurt, some of it may have been my fault – long story short, I underestimated J.J.’s temper and had to spend a few days in protective custody, courtesy of our good friend, Guard Captain Nishigori Takeshi,”

Viktor’s mouth formed around words he didn’t speak.

“I was _perfectly fine_. Well, kind of. Mostly,” Phichit rambled, “I mean, I was _safe_ , anyway – but _rumor has it_ , the reason Yuuri up and left . . . was _me_. Because he _thought_ I was in danger and rushed back to save me. Saw it in some ‘ _magic mirror_ ’?” He raised an eyebrow pointedly.

Viktor nodded, and Phichit continued, “But _now_ Yuuri’s gone and gotten himself _engaged_ to that _maniac_ , _Jean Jacques Leroy_ , because he thinks _you’re_ in danger . . . and needless to say, that is _entirely unacceptable_ ”

Viktor’s face fell.

“So . . . we’re going to make things right!” Phichit declared with a grin, “Well, _you_ are. I already did the whole plunge-headlong-into-danger-and-risk-my-life-to-save-the-day thing. Once was more than enough for today, and quite frankly, I can’t show my face back home without it being used for target practice, so . . . the rest is up to you, _my liege_!”

Viktor blinked up at the inventor’s cheerful expression, completely dumbstruck.

“Wh-what?”

“You heard me,” Phichit insisted, “I’m just the messenger, laying my life on the line to reach you before Yuuri pointlessly martyrs himself like so many other foolhardy young lovers. Now, go save my stupidly gallant brother from his own terrible choices!”

His words were met by cheers from the assembled trinkets.

Yuri cackled shamelessly, “Now, this guy, I _like_!”

Viktor stared numbly at the gathered masses, logic failing him as he processed Phichit’s tirade, “I-I don’t . . . understand,”

Phichit took a deep breath, “Yuuri is getting married. The wedding is at sunset. You’re going to stop it,” he explained slowly, as if speaking to a child.

Viktor looked away, shamefaced “I . . . can’t–”

Phichit gaped at him like he’d grown another head, “You can’t? What do you mean, you _can’t_?” he demanded incredulously.

“I mean I _can’t_ ,” Viktor whined, “I can’t leave the grounds!”

That seemed to bring Phichit to a screeching halt.

“W-wait . . .” the inventor puzzled, “you mean . . . because of the spell? Does it . . . _prevent_ you from leaving?”

Viktor sighed, holding up his furry paws, “look at me, Phichit,” he lamented, “Even if I _could_ leave . . . I can’t go out there looking like _this_ . . . just think what would happen!”

Phichit’s eyes narrowed, “But . . . but there’s nothing _physically stopping you_ , right?” he clarified, “no magic barriers or pointy fences or life-threatening ailments or anything like that?”

Viktor’s stomach flip-flopped.

Truth be told, he didn't know; he’d never actually tried.

Looking the way he did . . . he hadn’t ever wanted to.

It wasn’t for vanity. Well, it wasn’t just for vanity. It was for safety, for his own good; it was too dangerous for him out there, with hunters and guards and angry mobs – he’d cause a panic the instant someone spotted him. 

But it had never occurred to him to –

He’d always just assumed that –

“How would I even get to Yuuri?” Viktor huffed, “I can’t just waltz into The Village looking like this! And even if I could –”

“So, that’s a 'no'?” Phichit reiterated sardonically, “That’s a 'no' on physical barricades? Just checking,”

Viktor felt like he’d swallowed a mouthful of vinegar.

Fine. Chulanont 1 - Nikiforov 0.

“J.J. would come after us,” Viktor countered, “I saw it all, I heard what he’d do . . . Yuuri is trying to protect –”

Phichit stood firm, “Look, Yuuri is my brother, and I love him and everything . . . but I think we can all agree that he’s more than a _little bit_ naïve sometimes. So the whole ‘ _this is what Yuuri wants and I have to respect his wishes_ ’ argument is _not_ gonna fly right now, Nikiforov. I mean, knowing J.J., I wouldn't be surprised if he breaks his word and comes after you anyway -”

“See?” Viktor bit out, “I’ve put everyone in enough peril as it is –”

“Great,” Yuri spat sarcastically, “so we can fight off a bunch of angry yokels and die in a fire, or slowly freeze to death, watching Viktor pine until the spell becomes permanent. Wow, such _great_ options, how will we ever decide?”

“Not if they can break the spell,” Christophe countered, “no beast, no battle. Simple as that,”

Masumi hummed in agreement, “This J.J. fellow seems . . . _desperate_ , at the very least, but I highly doubt even _he_ would wage war on the Crown Prince of the Northern Territories. Assuming Viktor was human again, of course”

“And I think you’re _all_ forgetting about our secret weapon,” Phichit drawled victoriously.

Viktor turned back to him, confusion in his eyes.

“Two words,” Phichit crowed, “ _Enchanted Castle_ ,”

Viktor felt like he'd swallowed more vinegar.

Phichit pressed on, “This place built a twelve foot tall barricade of solid ice to protect me from a _single_ wolf. What do you think it’s going to do when J.J. and his militia show up, guns-a-blazin’? Now, I can’t make any promises . . . but considering I almost _died_ getting here, thanks to your little winter wonderland, I’m going to go ahead assume that an _actual_ threat won’t stand a chance,”

Viktor’s heart began to pound.

Could it truly be so simple?

Could he really go out there?

Could he still save Yuuri?

Could they actually break the spell?

The staff were excited; the air buzzing with anticipation.

But . . . but how would he –?

And where –?

And what about –?

Would he just be putting Yuuri in even more danger?

Viktor’s throat went dry; paralyzed with fear.

His heart raced, longing for Yuuri and aching to rescue him; to see him again, hold him again, speak to him again. To finally tell Yuuri that he loved him.

But . . .

_“First thing tomorrow morning . . . we’ll track your scent back to the castle . . . and burn it to the ground. Then I’ll slit the Beast’s throat myself, and free you from his grasp forever,”_

. . . could he really afford to get his hopes up like that? Or Yuuri’s? Or his staff's?

Viktor’s shiny claws dug into the mattress; He didn’t realize how long he’d been speechless.

Yakov broke the silence, “Vitya. Listen to me. If we do nothing, we know for certain what will happen. Yuuri will marry J.J. and the spell will become permanent. But if we _fight_ , the odds are in our favor. Yes, there are risks, and there _will_ be consequences; but, isn’t the chance of success better than the certainty of failure?

“Isn’t love worth fighting for?” Phichit beseeched, “Isn’t _Yuuri_ worth fighting for?”

Viktor halted, teetering on the precipice of ruin. He’d come to the end of everything he’d ever known; to a place where fear and doubt ruled, a place where loss was inevitable and nightmares became real.

The same place where he’d first met failure, twenty years ago.

He was in the thick of it once again; with the fates of so many resting on his shoulders, in the wake of a tiny miscalculation. But it seemed that the only way out, was through the darkness . . . and Viktor didn’t know if he could survive the casualties along the way.

“Well?” Phichit demanded, “Do you love Yuuri or not?”

“Of course I do!” Viktor snarled, “But it’s not that simple, Phichit!”

“Oh, _here we go_ ,” Chris scoffed.

“Not _this_ again, Vitya!” Yakov griped.

“What’s _‘not simple’_ about it?” Phichit goaded, “Claws, horns, fangs . . . finally a chance to put this curse to good use –”

“This isn’t just about you, _shithead_!” Yuri growled

“Now, I’m not suggesting _murder_ per se,” Phichit clarified, “unless you think it would be best?”

“Please, Viktor! Just think about –”

“I mean, fine. Not murder. Just scare him a little. Then break the spell and ‘poof’ J.J. problem _solved_!”

“I-I can’t,” Viktor crumbled, “It’s . . . it’s too late –”

“Like _hell_ it is, Vitya!”

“You still have _hours_ before the wedding –”

“What are you waiting for? Go get Katsudon and drag him home already!”

“Arf, arf, arf awooooooooo!”

“It’s _not_ too late! He _loves_ you, Viktor!”

“You _can’t_ just give up on him! Not without a fight, chéri!”

“– Minako and I did not spend _weeks_ pouring over _tax records_ for you to quit on us now!”

“Poor Yuuri! I wonder how he’s holding up –”

“All alone and engaged to that horrible man – he must be so scared!”

“I! Miss! Yuuri! So! Much!”

“ _Me too_!”

“Arf, Arf, Arf, AWOOOO!”

“You have to _try_ , Viktor! Yuuri _needs_ you!”

“There’s still hope! I know you can do it, mon petite bichon!”

“Do it for Yuuri –”

 

***

 

Otabek silently scanned the screaming mob.

They were all howling now.

 _All of them_.

Especially Makkachin.

He couldn’t hear any of the arguments being made over the rest of the clamour; nothing to do now, but wait it out.

He leaned back with a sigh, when something red and luminous caught his eye.

“It’s _not_ too late!” Masumi was shouting, “He _loves_ you, Viktor!”

Otabek puzzled a moment, observing the ruddy glow and trying to discern what he was witnessing.

Now, Chris was yelling, “You _can’t_ just give up on him! Not without a fight, chéri!”

The Letter Opener’s eyes widened ever-so-slightly in shock.

Curious, he looked to the window.

Hmm . . . _interesting_.

“Hey. Yura,” Otabek nudged the teacup.

“What?” Yuri snapped, rounding on him with a feral snarl.

Otabek let it slide; knowing he was just worked up about the other Yuuri.

The Letter Opener gestured to the little iron side table, “watch” he instructed.

Yuri glowered, but did as he was told.

Masumi was hollering again, “You have to _try_ , Viktor! Yuuri _needs_ you!”

If Yuri could have gone any paler, he would have.

“There’s still hope!” Chris cried out in agreement, “I know you can do it, mon petite bichon!”

Yuri whirled back to Otabek.

“ _What the shit was that_?” The Teacup hissed.

“It’s happening outside too,” Otabek replied, “I’m going to try something, Yura. Follow my lead,”

 

***

 

Viktor nearly blacked out, staring into the mob of screaming staff.

Their cries were deafening –

“You have to _try_ , Viktor! Yuuri _needs_ you!”

But, maybe they were right . . .

“There’s still hope! I know you can do it, mon petite bichon!”

Maybe he _could_ –

“Do it for Yuuri –”

“Don’t waste your time. Everyone knows it’s pointless,”

The whole room immediately went silent; so still, one could hear a pin drop. 

Viktor’s heart sank.

Slowly, they all turned to Otabek.

“No it’s not! Don’t listen to him, Vitya!” Yakov barked.

“W-what do you mean?” Viktor murmured, looking to the Letter Opener with plaintive eyes.

“It’s too late,” Otabek replied simply, “Yuuri is gone, along with any hope we had of breaking the spell.”

Phichit grit his teeth, “it’s _not_ too late. He just has to go stop the wedding and –”

Otabek rolled his eyes, “Even if he _could_ – which he _can’t_ – you honestly think Yuuri still wants him? After all, Viktor is the _reason_ he’s in his current predicament,” he challenged, “It’s time to face the truth; Katsuki Yuuri is _never_ coming back,”

Viktor’s heart nearly shattered.

It . . . couldn’t be true, could it?

Yuuri still wanted him – still _loved_ him – even now . . . didn’t he?

“Holy Shit!” Yuri gasped; his eyes darting to the window.

“Yea! _Holy shit_ , Otabek . . . what’s gotten into you?” Mila scolded.

“Is your _head_ feeling alright?” Sara jabbed, “maybe you should go lie down,”

“Or go jump in a lake!” Minami honked indignantly.

“I-I’m s-sure h-he didn’t mean it, Viktor,” Masumi soothed, “He’s just –”

“Beka’s right, _old man_ ,” Yuri interrupted with a sneer, “You had your chance and you blew it. Katsudon is gone forever, and it’s all your fault!”

“ _Yuri_!” Yakov, Nikolai and Masumi all scolded him at once.

Makkachin whined.

“They’re _wrong_ ,” Phichit insisted, “I _know_ my brother, and he would _never_ give up on someone he loves!”

Viktor looked to the inventor with wary eyes.

Phichit’s face fell, “Look, Viktor – it is Viktor, right?” he swallowed hard, “I’m the first person to admit that I screw up sometimes. Well, fine, I screw up _all the time_. But no matter how many inventions have backfired, or how often I’ve been lost, or how many feuds I’ve started, Yuuri has always been there to bail me out. I’ve done every stupid, reckless thing you could possibly imagine, and he’s never _once_ turned his back on me. Not even when I got ‘ _arrested_ ’. Yuuri is _always_ saving other people . . . that’s just the type of stupid, noble person he is. But now _he’s_ the one who needs help. So . . . if you really love him the way you _say_ you do, there should be no doubt in your mind about stopping this wedding. And if he really loves _you_ the way _they_ say he does . . . well then frankly, he deserves better than your tears,”

Viktor bowed his head in shame.

Phichit was right.

He was doing it _again_ ; giving up, making excuses, running away . . .

Letting the coldness win.

Yuuri had saved him on countless occasions; saved him from the spell, from his loneliness, from himself. Yuuri had ventured into the midst of a raging snowstorm to bring Viktor in from the cold; breathing joy back into his life, and love back into his heart. 

Yuuri deserved better.

So . . . Viktor would just have to _be_ better.

He couldn’t let this end here; not now, not like this.

Somehow, some way, Viktor was going stop that wedding and save the man he loved.

He would tear through the forest on all fours if he had to, rip the village apart brick by brick, take on any challenge, surmount any obstacle, fight any foe, face J.J.’s militia with his own two paws –

Masumi gasped, so sharp it was almost a shriek.

“ _The rose_!”

 Viktor’s eyes swivelled up sharply, instantly landing on the enchanted flower.

The assembly gasped.

There on the little iron side table, the rose had come to life once more; a glittering collection of rubies and emeralds, scattering ribbons of light all around the chamber.

It seemed to be glowing.

“What? _How_?” Viktor cried, jumping to his feet, “Yuuri is _gone_ . . . so why is it –? How can it be –?”

Yuri scoffed, “Ugh, _watch and learn_ , old man! Beka, go!”

All eyes turned to the Letter Opener once more.

Otabek cleared his throat, “Don’t delude yourself, Viktor. This means nothing. The Enchantress is manipulating you _again_ – giving you _false hope_ , so you continue to make a fool of yourself for her amusement. She’s toying with you, and somehow after all this time, you’re still falling for her tricks. You were a failure of a Prince, and an even worse Beast. It’s a miracle Yuuri ever put up with you at all,”

Viktor furrowed his brow, the inside of his ribs prickling ever so slightly.

“N-no. T-that . . . that can’t be true . . .” he objected weakly.

“Meine Güte!” Chris gasped, “Look!”

The rose was beginning to dim; the tip of the stem and one single leaf tinged with fresh, icy frost.

“That’s nothing. Look out the window, _geniuses_ ,” Yuri drawled.

Viktor’s eyes snapped to the balcony; beyond the window, a sunny sky was slowly being blotted out by shades of grey.

A few sparse snowflakes hit the window and melted.

“W-what is the meaning of this?” Yakov demanded, “Yuri! Explain yourself _this instant_!”

“Pfft. What’s to explain?” Yuri huffed, “Viktor’s a hopeless idiot that ruins everything he touches,”

“He put all our lives in jeopardy with his careless actions,” Otabek added, “And now, Yuuri’s as well. He’s a fool, and a coward, and his arrogance cursed us all,”

“Yea, and he still has _no idea_ how to fix any of it!” Yuri taunted, “It’s like he’s not even trying! He hasn’t even figured out how the stupid rose works yet!”

“Alright,” Masumi interjected, “I think that’s _quite enough_ –”

Yuri ignored him, “But, luckily for him, Beka and I _have_ ,” He flippantly gestured back to the rose, “ _You’re fucking welcome_ ,”

During the onslaught of insults, it had continued to freeze; little channels of ice clawing their way up the stem and spreading down the leaves. A small smattering of petals had frozen along the outermost ring of the blossom.

Beyond the balcony, the snow was falling harder; thick, fluffy flakes quickly accumulating on the rail.

“W-wait,” Viktor stammered, his mind going fuzzy, “What did you –? What are you –?”

“It appears the rose is _not_ a timer, as we assumed, my Prince,” Otabek replied simply, “It’s an _analogue_ ,”

“An . . . analogue?” Mila repeated uncertainly.

“A duplicate. A copy,” Phichit supplied, “A cognate of . . . I don’t know, ‘ _something else_ ’. The weather maybe? The rose is symbolic, merely acting as a _visual representation_ of another system, by reflecting any changes to the state of that system in real-time,”

Viktor swallowed hard, his eyes drawn inexorably to the snow outside his window. He was getting a _very bad_ feeling about this . . .

Otabek nodded at Phichit, “Exactly. However, my guess is that the rose correlates not to the weather, but rather, to Viktor’s . . . _emotional welfare_ ”.

The chamber descended into awkward silence.

Viktor let out a groan, burying his face in his paws, “Bozhe Moy . . .”

This was _by far_ the most _humiliating_ moment of his life.

“You hear that?” Yuri barked, “This _whole damn time_ we’ve been at the mercy of Viktor’s _stupid fucking feelings_!”

Viktor vaguely wondered if anyone had ever actually died of embarrassment before; if not, he was about to be the first.

He moaned into his furry, padded paws.

“Viktor . . ?” a gentle voice cooed, “How are you holding up over there, chéri?”

“ _Great_ Chris,” Viktor sighed sarcastically, “Just . . . _great_ ,”

“Why ask? Now, we can just look at the rose and spare ourselves the _attitude_ ,” Yakov chuckled.

“ _Yakov_!” Viktor whined petulantly.

“Oh come now, Vitya,” Yakov chided, “It’s not _that_ bad,”

“No, it’s _that_ bad,” Yuri snorted.

“Yuri!”

“I mean, it’s unbelievably, _hilariously_ bad. I’m _so_ glad I’m not you right now, fuzz-face!”

“ _Yuri_!”

“Yakov is right, chéri,” Chris agreed, “The enchantress told us there was a time limit – it made perfect sense to assume the rose was an 'hourglass'. I mean, for the longest time, all it did was freeze and freeze and freeze –”

“Thank you, Chris” Viktor murmured, still hiding behind his paws, “I feel _so much better_ now,”

Masumi cleared his throat, “I believe what my _darling beau_ is _trying_ to say, is that _none of us_ understood what the rose truly was, and that you’ve done a _remarkable_ job navigating the curse thus far, considering the information you were given,”

“Oh, ah . . . Oui, oui, mon petite bichone!” Christophe agreed, a little too quickly.

“And I’m _certain_ that Otabek and Yuri didn’t mean _any_ of the awful things they said just now,” Masumi continued, with a pointed glare at the letter opener and teacup, “ _right_?”

“My apologies. I only wanted to test the theory, while I had a chance,” Otabek assured, “Of course I didn’t mean any of it,”

“Well, _I did_ ,” Yuri scoffed, “Viktor is _hopeless_!”

“Yurochka!” Nikolai snapped, “Apologize, or you’ll be mincing ‘til you’re old enough to get wrinkles!”

The cacophonous clamour continued all around and Viktor relaxed, ever-so-slightly.

His friends continued to argue, shouting over one another, filling his chamber with quips and taunts and laughter.

He supposed that was . . . nice; even if it was at his expense.

But . . . it wasn’t _really_ at his expense, was it?

Well, yes, it was; it very much was.

But . . . if they truly held him in disdain, if they truly thought him an incompetent failure, if they had truly lost faith in him and his ability to lead . . . would they still be here, trying to help?

All of Viktor’s most private thoughts and feelings, his innermost turmoil and deepest desires had all been laid bare before his staff for the last _twenty years_ , without any of them even realizing.

If they hadn’t turned away from him by now . . .

Sure, it was in their own best interest to break the spell . . . but other, less forgiving friends may have become bitter, may have grown to resent him, may have wished for his failure out of spite . . .

But not them; not even Yuri _genuinely_ hated Viktor.

Even after all he’d put them through, Viktor’s friends _still_ hadn’t abandoned him. Even now, they were here, filling his chamber with love.

They had supported him, all these years . . . and he had been too proud to see it.

Viktor sighed, letting his paws fall away from his face; he really _was_ hopeless.

The prince smiled; finally understanding how Yuuri could always find joy in the chaos.

“So,” Sara chimed in hesitantly, “if the _rose_ isn’t a _timer_ . . . then, how much longer do we have to break the spell?”

The chamber fell silent.

Viktor took a deep breath, “If you can learn to love another, and earn their love in return before the rose turns to solid ice, then the spell will be broken. If not, you will be doomed to remain a beast for all time,” he recited; confident and unwavering.

“So . . . we can still judge by the rose?” Chris reasoned, “As long as Viktor stays happy –”

Viktor shook his head, “No,” he corrected gently, “Not happy . . . _hopeful_ ”

Every eye fell on him, expressions wary; all unaccustomed to seeing their Prince so forthcoming with matters of the heart.

Viktor thought perhaps he should have been nervous, or embarrassed, but instead, he felt nothing but calm; suffused to overflowing with peace and purpose.

He didn’t doubt himself as he spoke, certain in the truth of his convictions, “The rose became worse the longer I shut myself away,” he explained, “I thought Yuuri was to thank for restoring it; that perhaps, the rose would continue to thaw the closer I came to breaking the spell. But I was wrong. Yuuri’s love didn’t ‘fix’ the rose. _I_ revived it, without even realizing . . . because being with Yuuri gave me _hope_. The spell _won't_  become permanent after a certain length of time, it'll become permanent if I lose hope. It'll become permanent if I give up. If I surrender. If I stop caring. If I stop fighting. If I lose faith . . .”

Viktor swallowed hard, looking to the magic artifact, now whole and hale and shining like a beacon on the little iron side table.

He grinned; it was almost as incandescent as Yuuri’s smile.

Almost.

“But so long as I keep trying,” he concluded, “so long as I _believe_ that I can break the spell someday . . . I have all the time in the world to do so,”

The chamber fell silent once more; only this time, it wasn’t awkward . . . it was awed.

The air grew warm and bright, filled with playful spring sunlight.

“Well,” Phichit grinned, casually strolling over to lean against the bedpost, “not that this hasn’t all been very _fun_ and  _educational_ . . . but, sounds to me like you’ve got somewhere to be, your highness,”

Viktor nodded, Phichit smirked.

“If you happen to run into J.J.,” the inventor continued, “tell him _Phichit Chulanont_ sent you,”

The Prince snorted, rolling his eyes, “ _Phichit_ . . .”

“Fine! Fine!” Phichit surrendered playfully, “But . . . tell Yuuri I’m safe?”

Viktor smiled, “consider it done,”

Phichit smiled back.

A chorus of blue birds chirped in the distance; for a moment, Viktor was mesmerised by chilly puddles and clear skies.

He looked to his paws; perhaps Phichit had been right about utilizing his beastly form . . .

Without warning, Viktor went down on all fours and launched himself towards the shining balcony doors. He paused only long enough to fling them open, before leaping out into the balcony.

A chorus of scandalized voices chased him out.

“Viktor, NO!”

“What are you doing?”

“You can’t save my brother if you’re dead!”

“STOP!”

“Use the _stairs_ , Vitya!”

“ _What the hell is wrong with you_?”

“Come back! It’s too far!”

“You’re going to hurt yourself!”

“Bon chance, mon petit bichon!”

Viktor paid them no mind, grinning like a fool as he vaulted over the railing.

Somehow, he knew everything would be fine.

As he released the rail, Viktor twisted himself towards the castle; digging his long, sharp claws into the melting sheets of ice that had accumulated over the last twenty years.

He held fast as the makeshift glaciers were torn asunder by his powerful talons, revelling in the spray of ice on his furry face and the fireworks of adrenaline bursting to life in his veins.

The ground was coming up quick, so Viktor pushed off the wall; belly-flopping into a soggy snow bank.

He could still hear the cries of his friends from above; but now they were little more than a buzz in the distance.

Viktor sprang up, shaking himself off like a dog on the dripping promenade.

The sun was warm on his face, and hope was alive in his heart.

“I’m coming Yuuri,” he vowed, “just hang on –”

Then Viktor was off, sprinting on all fours, like the vicious creature J.J. so feared; racing to save the man he loved.

 

***

 

Up on the balcony, the rest of the assembly heaved a collective sigh of relief.

Or perhaps, exasperation.

“Well . . . that’s our Viktor,” Masumi remarked sheepishly.

“Pfft. Show-off,” Yuri huffed.

“One of these days he’s going to break his neck . . .” Yakov drawled, “and then we’ll all get some much deserved peace and quiet –”

“Looks like he really embraced his _Beast-side_ ,” Mila quipped.

“Mm-hmm,” Chris agreed, “Remind me to put a bell on him when he gets back,”

“Arrrrr-woof!”

“No, no, not one of _your_ bells, Makka,” Chris promised, “I’ll get him his own,”

“You think we should get him some chew-toys too?” Sara joked.

“THAT! WAS! AWESOME!” Minami squealed.

“Ugh! No it wasn’t! It was stupid!” Yuri groused, “What an _asshole_ – a stupid, hopeless, lovesick _asshole_ ,”

 “I know, right?” Phichit teased, his smile fond, “. . . can you believe I’m going to let him marry my brother?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Japanese] Otōsan = お父さん= Dad  
> [Japanese] Okāsan = お母さん= Mom  
> [French] Oui, oui, mon Capitaine = Yes, yes, my Captain!  
> [French] Mon Chou = My dear/Dear one/My sweet bun (Colloquial Term of Endearment)  
> [French] Chéri = Darling (Colloquial)  
> [French] Mon Petit Bichon = My Little Dog/My Pet (Colloquial Term of Endearment)  
> [High German] Meine Güte! = My Goodness (General Exclamation of Surprise)  
> [Russian] Bozhe moy = Боже мой = Oh my God/Oh Dear/Oh my Goodness (Loosely)  
> [French] Bon chance, mon petit bichon = Good luck, my little pup!
> 
> Hit Me Up with any fixes!


	13. . . . & The Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every choice has a consequence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pow Pow! Comin' atcha with the next chapter!
> 
> Thank you for all your comments, kudos, love and support throughout this fic! 
> 
> Next up I'll be posting a short 'Interlude' chapter - then it's just the Finale and the Epilogue! (And maybe some spin-off ficlets if people are interested)!
> 
> Check out my [tumblr](https://silverscribblesuniverse.tumblr.com/) for some fun extras! Like this [fancy-shmancy reference map](https://silverscribblesuniverse.tumblr.com/post/173203250918/hey-friends-here-are-some-reference-maps-for-the) of the Village/World!
> 
>  
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS:
> 
> ALCOHOL, LANGUAGE, GUNS & GUN VIOLENCE, BLOOD

Viktor tore through the forest, claws digging into the rich earth beneath, feeling more alive than ever before.

He crashed through the Ice Gate, raced down the hidden path and burst out onto the main road, kicking up clumps of dirt and snow as he went.

He had no time for silence, for secrecy, for shame; let them see!

Let them _all_ see what he’d become; Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov, Living Legend of the North, First of his name and heir to the Northern Throne, now a hideous beast bent down on all-fours, filthy and faulty and frivolous – but first and foremost, _in love_.

Viktor panted, breaths heavy, heart pounding; snarling like a feral dog as he tore across the leagues.

Soon, the edge of the forest neared; the light becoming brighter as he reached the tree-line.

The sun was warm and welcoming on his shaggy silver fur, but Viktor basked in it only a moment.

This place . . . this _smell_ . . .

He knew _exactly_ where he was.

The little farm seemed so peaceful as he approached; a quaint little country scene, fit for a painting.

It was just as he’d seen it in the mirror; the vegetable garden, the hen house, the cottage, the paddock, the stable, the –

The workshop.

Viktor padded over to it, silently paying his respects, and vowing to make things right.

All around him, the air reeked of humans; two in particular, with hundreds more filtering through.

Viktor’s stomach flip-flopped, suddenly realizing that he possessed even more canine attributes than previously thought. He must have grown accustomed to the scents in the Castle, he supposed; having been trapped there so long. It would explain why he hadn’t noticed the full scope of his abilities until now.

But while this new discovery was _disturbing_ , to say the least, he supposed it may yet prove useful.

He hadn’t exactly come up with a _plan_ , after all, and had no way of knowing where Yuuri was, or what was happening, or even how much time he had left.

Grudgingly, Viktor lifted his nose for a tentative whiff.

He identified the brothers almost instantly; unsurprisingly, their scents were the two most prominent.

One was an earthy blend of wood and smoke and varnish; a dozen crisp synthetic odors that were unmistakably Phichit.

But the other one . . . the other one was soft and unassuming; a sweet welcoming bouquet of books and bluebells and ballet shoes.

That was Yuuri; Viktor would bet his life on it.

Cautiously, he sniffed the air once more, this time picking out the crisp aroma of Yuuri’s borrowed perfume; the sharp, citrusy one he’d worn the night of the ball. His beastly heart thumped wildly against his ribs.

Viktor followed his nose; silently padding to the edge of the hill and crouching low in the tall grass.

He could see the whole town from up here . . .

At the foot of the slope lay a large road, running east to west; tracing the northernmost limit of The Village. To the west lay fields and forests as far as the eye could see; and to the east, a low, rumbling river intersected the Main Road. A little ways down, the river disappeared into a thick copse of trees bordering the east side of town; a little tributary stream emerged near the south-eastern corner of the Village.

The town itself was small and quaint; a Marketplace, a Square, a Schoolhouse, and a dozen other little shops and shacks all stuck in-between.

So . . . where in that tangle of brick was Katsuki Yuuri?

Tiny, speck-like Villagers milled through the streets below, setting up white wedding banners and tents and tablecloths which fluttered like sails on an earthen sea.

Viktor could just go down there, he supposed; storm into town and strike fear into their hearts, challenge J.J.’s claim, demand Yuuri’s safe return –

Just then, a bright whinny and thundering of hooves caught his attention.

Viktor looked sharply to the east; there in the distance, a battalion of troops was approaching.

 

*****

 

Isabella stormed down the road, a thousand and one doubting hounds nipping at her heels.

She headed straight for the Town Square.

When she reached it, she was greeted by a sea of white and purple and green; the wedding set-up was nearly complete.

At the far end of the Square, near the Chapel, a white lattice archway had been adorned with wildflowers, wrapped in the same ribbons she’d used for the centerpieces. Every bench and chair and stool in town had been brought out and set up in haphazard rows, with a distinct isle down the center; all covered with white linen and tied off with more ribbons, to create the illusion that they were somehow supposed to go together.

Half a dozen villagers buzzed around her, fretting over chairs and flowers and banners; none of which seemed to want to stay put.

Finally, Isabella spotted him; down at the end near the archway, snapping at Mr. Baker.

 _J.J._ . . .

Isabella steeled her resolve; she could do this . . . _she could do this_.

“Well, if you can’t _find_ the confetti, then you’ll just have to make more, _won’t you_?” J.J. was scolding.

Mr. Baker looked like he was about to object, but mercifully, Paulette came to his rescue; quickly tugging her father away with a harried apology to the groom.

J.J. turned away with a heavy sigh, finally catching sight of the huntress.

“Isabella!” he cried in relief.

A warm grin spread across his face; Isabella fought the urge to slap it off.

“Thank _mercy_ you’re here! You would not _believe_ the afternoon I’ve had!” J.J. lamented, picking his way over to her, “We’ve had to re-hang the banners almost a dozen times already – for some _mercy-forsaken_ reason, the damn things just won’t stay up! And some _jackass_ keeps moving all the chair–”

J.J. stopped; his bright expression turning sharp, “Wait. Where are the guys?” he demanded, “Why aren’t they with you? _Where’s Yuuri_?”

Isabella held firm, “Back at the house. I need to talk to you, J.J.”

“Now?” he snapped; half-watching Mr. Baker, who was presently searching for the confetti.

“Yes. _Now_ ,”

“Fine!” J.J. barked, “ _What_?”

Isabella yanked hard on J.J.’s jacket, dragging him towards a quiet alcove in the shadow of the Chapel.

“Something’s up with Katsuki,” Isabella accused, as J.J. staggered to a stop, “He’s miserable about the wedding. _Why_?”

The groom’s eyes went wide, “Wait – you _talked_ to him?”

“Yes, J.J., I did”.

“What? Why would you –? _I told you to leave him alone_!”

“He never came out of his room. _I had to go in there and check on him_ ,”

“He’s _fine_ , Isabella! He’s just nerv–”

“Bull _shit_!” Isabella hissed, “ _Don’t lie to me, J.J._!”

The silence perched on a dagger’s edge; Isabella fixed him with a glare.

The Hunter closed his eyes and tugged at his jacket, smoothing it into place with a deep, calming breath, “Fine. Perhaps Yuuri is having some _doubts_ about the wedding” he allowed, “but that doesn’t change anything. He knows he's making the right choice,”

There was something about J.J.'s tone; something guarded and dangerous that put Isabella on edge.

“Seemed like more than just cold feet to me,” she challenged.

J.J.’s expression turned glacial, “What did he say to you?”

Isabella shrugged, “Lots of things,”

“Like what?”

“He wants to see Phichit”.

“Ugh, _still_?”

“So you _did_ promise him –”

“I didn’t _promise_ him,” J.J. objected, “I said _maybe_. I’ve been trying to talk him out of it! I mean, _you and I_ both know how _badly_ that would end . . . but Yuuri, he, uh . . . has this crazy notion that he and The Tinker need to, uh . . . have a showdown or something. You know how dramatic artists can be – one minute Yuuri never wants to see his brother again, the next he’s itching to go make a scene–”

“ _Don’t get married_!”

Time ground to a screeching halt; not even a cricket dared to chirp in the silence which followed.

Pins and needled prickled across Isabella’s skin; she suddenly felt lightheaded.

J.J.’s glare dropped another ten degrees, “ _What_?”

“Just, hear me out, alright?” Isabella entreated, “I’m not saying you have to call off the engagement altogether, J.J., but you shouldn’t rush into–!”

“ _Damn it_ , Isabella!” J.J. wailed, “I don’t need this. Not today. Not from you –”

“What?” Isabella seethed, “I’m just trying to look out for you – I don’t want to see you get hurt! There’s something wrong with Yuuri. I’m . . . I’m actually _worried_ about him, J.J.! And you’ve got so much to deal with already . . . so maybe just _wait_ a couple days, yea? Let things settle a bit. You can get married _after_ –”

“What if he changes his mind?”

Isabella stopped short; J.J.’s voice had become soft, catching her completely off guard.

“What?”

J.J. shuffled his feet, “What if he changes his mind? What if this is the only way? What if this is my only chance?”

Isabella’s face fell, “Is that what you’re worried about? Oh, J.J. –”

“I _know_. I know how it sounds, Isabella. But what if –” J.J. paused, nervously licking his lips, “What if we . . . _take care of things_ , and then Yuuri decides that there’s nothing, uh, _keeping him here_ anymore, you know? I mean, maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s too soon, maybe it’s risky . . . but it’s worth it, right? For a chance at happiness? For _both_ of us. I . . . I _love_ Yuuri. I’ll _always_ love Yuuri. So whatever’s happened, whatever we’ve said, whatever we’ve _done_ – it’s all in the past! All that matters is the future. _Our_ future; mine and Yuuri’s. So, maybe it _seems_ like a bad idea, but this is for the best – even if he can’t see that right now–”

“But if Yuuri’s going to change his mind, isn’t better for him to do that _before_ you’re married?” Isabella countered, stopping J.J.’s tremulous rant, “This is all just happening so fast, J.J., and after everything he’s been through, who even knows if Yuuri’s in his right mind –?”

“Once we’re married, everything will be fine!” J.J. insisted, “Sure, Yuuri is a bit . . . ‘ _confused_ ’ right now . . . but this is what he _needs_. I _know_ it is. He needs me to look out for him. To protect him. To help him . . . _find his way_. He needs a nice, _normal_ life – one where he’s safe and provided for and can forget all about magic and monsters. He needs a good, stable future with a loving husband by his side. _I can be that for him_. I can give him those things. Everything I’ve done, it’s all been for him – for _his own good_. I _love_ him –”

Isabella said nothing, just bit her lip and looked away; echoes of her earlier conversation haunting her.

_“J.J. doesn’t love me”_

_"He thinks he does. He says he does. But he doesn’t”._

_“I never asked J.J. to come after me . . . He did that on his own”._

_“That isn’t enough. That isn’t love”._

_“J.J. doesn’t even know what colour my eyes are”._

The nagging itch was back; sharper and more insistent than ever.

 _Someone_ here was lying; and to Isabella’s horror, she was starting to realize that ‘someone’ was J.J.

“ _Trust_ me, Isabella,” the hunter urged, taking her by the shoulders, “ _someday he’ll thank me for this_ ,”

Isabella swallowed hard; she almost couldn’t believe what she was about to do.

But she had to know the truth.

No matter what.

“Y-yea,” she agreed, “Yea, I see what you mean now. I . . . I guess you’re right,”

“Yea . . . of course I’m right,” J.J. insisted, “I mean, no offense, Isabella, but . . . I think I know my own fiancée better than _you_. So if I say he’s fine, he’s _fine_. Got it?”

“Yea. Got it,” Isabella nodded, “Sorry, J.J., I just . . . forgot how dramatic Katsuki could be. It’s probably just wedding jitters, like you said. I didn’t mean to upset you,”

She nearly choked on the words.

J.J. relaxed, awkwardly retracting his arms, “its fine . . . I know you meant well. Just – just don’t scare me like that again, alright?”

He forced a little chuckle.

“Alright” Isabella echoed; her mouth moving of its own accord.

J.J. swiftly turned on his heel, back towards the wedding preparations.

“Hey, J.J.?” Isabella called after him.

“. . . Yea?”

She took a deep breath, “W-what colour are Yuuri’s eyes?”

“. . . What?”

J.J. turned back toward her, face blank, brow scrunched in confusion.

“ _Yuuri’s eyes_ ,” Isabella repeated, more firmly this time, “What colour are they?”

J.J. gaped at her.

“Uh . . . I don’t know. Why?”

The world fell away beneath Isabella’s feet.

Everything was suddenly too hot, too bright, too itchy, too loud –

“No reason,” she lied, pulling words from the blank vacuum of her mind, “I . . . have a bet going with Boucher,”

“Oh. Well, sorry, I don’t know what to tell ya,” J.J. shrugged, “Just check when you see him next,”

Isabella nodded absently, the blood in her veins slowly freezing her from the inside out, “Oh. Right. Good thinking.”

“That’s what I’m here for!” the groom chirped, heading back to the set-up once more.

“Hey, J.J.!”

Isabella called out again before she could stop herself.

“Yea?”

He looked over his shoulder; only three paces away, but drifting further from her reach with every passing second.

Isabella’s eyes fluttered shut, “. . . what colour are _my_ eyes?”

“What? I don’t have time for –”

“Oh, come on, J.J.!” She goaded, “Just guess! It’ll be . . . fun!”

“Isabella –!”

“ _Please_?”

Silence.

Isabella held her breath; entertaining silly childhood dreams one final moment more.

“Well, obviously they’re . . .”

What a beautiful thing denial could be.

“Uh . . . green? No, wait. Blue! Definitely blue! Or grey? Grey-ish, blue-ish, maybe?”

Isabella opened her eyes and forced a smile.

“Wow. You were right. Kind of. Eventually,” she surrendered.

“Of course I was right!” J.J. crowed, “I mean, remember back in school when you got into that scrap with what’s-his-face and he caught you with that right hook? You had a shiner for months! Like I wasn’t gonna notice –”

“Alright! I get it!” Isabella huffed, trying to stop her lip from trembling, “. . . thanks, J.J.”

The groom pouted, “Aww, come on Isabella! You broke that kid’s nose the very next day didn’t ya? That was –!”

A bright, brassy fanfare cut their conversation short.

“He’s here!” J.J. yelped, “Lord Maire Marchand!” he turned, heading for the little iron gate, “I have to go – you still have the petition, right?”

Isabella nodded, numb and hollow.

“Good,” J.J. grinned, “Don’t forget to sign it. Now, get back to my place and see what’s taking everyone so long, would ya?”

And just like that, he was gone.

Isabella stared after him; devastated.

Her hands shook as she reached into her jacket.

She pulled out the petition and started to rip.

Little white flakes fluttered to the ground, like the first snow of winter.

Isabella bit back a sob, watching as the summer breeze rustled the shredded pieces of parchment; blowing them all far, far away.

She wished it could take her with them.

Once every last bit had vanished, Isabella stood up straight, squared her shoulders, and shoved down her sorrow.

It was time to accept the truth.

It was time to let go.

It was time to make things right.

 

*****

 

Viktor dropped down, pressing himself flat to the earth; peeking through the tall-ish grass. He squinted in the bright afternoon light, surveying the approaching militia.

No . . . not a militia; an _entourage_ – a small regiment of personal guards, about a dozen or so, decked out in rich purples and deep blues, escorting a modestly appointed carriage.

Viktor frowned; apparently J.J. had friends in middling-to-high-places; for a personal escort, those guards were surprisingly well-armed. They looked like they might even be musketeers. 

He growled low in his throat; it would seem that J.J. had anticipated his interference.

No matter; if Viktor couldn’t fight his way in, he would just have to sneak in, instead.

Apparently he was about to get the chance to put his silent footfalls to good use.

Thank mercy the countryside had not been clear-cut; The Village was surrounded by enough foliage to conceal him – for a short while, at least.

Viktor laid in wait for the entourage to pass, planning his way in.

After an agonizing handful of minutes, the carriage and escort came to a halt on the outskirts of town; just past Viktor’s hiding place.

A cloying fanfare rang out to signal the noble’s arrival.

Now was his chance.

On four silent paws, Viktor sprang down the hill, crossing the main road in one giant leap; landing in the grove of trees on the other side.

Cautiously, he turned to peek from his cover.

The guards were still going about their business. No one was after him. He hadn’t been spotted.

Now safe in the trees, wedged between the river and the cemetery wall, Viktor closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Yuuri.

The scent was faint, but Viktor caught it; or at least, he hoped he did.

He turned southward – staying low and moving slow – following the path which would lead him back to his love.

 

*****

 

The Triplets crouched up in the watchtower, ready to unleash a barrage of confetti onto the unsuspecting townsfolk below.

It had been fun, antagonizing J.J. and his helpers all morning; but pulling down banners and mixing up chairs had gotten boring after a while.

And worse, it hadn’t slowed J.J. down one bit.

So, they’d come up with a new plan; one which would stop the wedding for sure!

Monsieur Chulanont would be so proud!

“Thee –”

“Two –”

“One!”

With great aplomb, they emptied the sack, sending a snowstorm of confetti swirling down into the square, burying everyone who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The list of casualties included Theo, Paulette and their fathers – Mr. Miller and Mr. Baker – as well as Isabella Yang, Officer Lee, The Chaplain, and –

The triplets ducked out of sight.

“Uh oh!”

“Did she see us?”

“We’re toast”.

“GIIIIIIIIIIIRLS! GET DOWN HERE, _NOW_!”

Yuuko’s screech was loud enough to rattle the warped wood of the watchtower.

The girls sighed.

“Busted . . .”

 

*****

 

J.J. strode down the lane, walking tall and proud. He took a few deep, calming breaths, trying to force the confrontation with Isabella out of his mind.

Apparently, even _she_ didn’t understand.

It was disappointing, of course, but he supposed it was just as well; soon, he and Yuuri would be married, and he would never have to explain himself again.

A few paces more, and the Lord Maire’s Carriage came into sight; the purple and blue insignia as familiar as his own reflection.

“Lord Maire Marchand! Thank you so much for coming – I’m honored you could make it, Sir!” J.J. called, greeting the doddering noble as he stepped down from his box.

Maire Marchand leaned heavily on his footman, the coach creaking with every step. He was a short man, heavy with wrinkles and shrivelled with age. His thinning hair was tied back with a bow, and he wore a coat of lush brown furs, despite the summer heat.

“Of course! Of course! Wouldn’t miss it!” the frail Lord replied, eyes alight as they settled on J.J., “ç'est magnifique!” He paused a moment to cough; hocking a huge loogie into his handkerchief.

“You made the journey alright then?” J.J. asked, trying to hide his revulsion as he moved to take the aging nobleman’s arm.

Marchand waved him off, “Oh, don’t be such a hen, Leroy!” the Lord Maire chided, “I’ve got breath in these old lungs yet!”

“Of course Lord Maire,” J.J. smiled, pulling back, “Is there anything I can –?”

“Oh to the ends with your ‘Lord Maire’!” The old man chuckled with a wag of his bony finger, “You know how I detest boot-kissing, Alain! And on your wedding day no less! I daresay, poor Nathalie will have her hands full with you, you rapscallion!”

J.J.’s face fell.

“Uh, apologies Sir –,” he said awkwardly, “It’s . . . its J.J., remember? J.J. Leroy? Alain was my father –”

The old man’s blue eyes lit up, big and bright and contrite, “Oh! Oh, yes of course! Jean. That’s right. Jean Jacques. So sorry, m’boy,” the old man leaned in, so close J.J. could smell his breath, “You look just like your father, you know!” the Lord murmured with a conspiratorial wink.

J.J. smiled proudly, the tightness in his chest slowly abating, “That’s what I’ve been told, sir”.

“And you’re wearing his ol’ battledress too. There’s a lad!” The Lord Maire praised, patting J.J.’s cheek affectionately, like he would his own child, “Well, good show, Leroy Junior! It looks to be a grand affair! Your father will be _very_ proud, no doubt. Speaking of . . . where is the ol’ layabout anyway? Shirking his duties, I wouldn’t wonder!”

J.J.’s eyebrows furrowed, “M-my father passed Sir. It was the sickness, remember? He retired from your battalion and –”

“Ahh yes. Good man, Alain Leroy. Good man,” Marchand intoned, suddenly soft, “He saved my life, you know. More than once, in fact! I was a tiger on the battlefield! I tiger, I tell you! But he was an even quicker draw than I, your father was. Not many like him, I daresay!”

The old man let out another wheezy chuckle.

“Yes Sir,” J.J. agreed, “I grew up hearing those stories. About how you and he –”

“Your father . . . truly was a _hero_ ,” The Lord Maire asserted, lost in his own memories. He nodded to himself, serious and stone-faced, “No doubt, the best man I ever knew,”

“Yes, Sir . . .” J.J. replied, equally sombre, “he certainly was,”

“Say there,” The old man chirped, cocking his head like an owl, “do you know where an old man might acquire a beverage? I’m finding myself a bit parched –”

“Of course, Sir!” J.J. invited, “Right this way,”

They walked on together, slowly and silently, until they came to the Tavern; both lost in thought as villagers and guards alike fluttered around them. Presently, a small army of townsfolk was setting up a decorative white tent over the head table, where he and Yuuri would sit during the reception; man and husband at last.

“There we are, Sir,” J.J. said, bringing the Lord Maire up to the Tavern door, “Our barkeep, Louis, can help you, I’m certain,”

“Ah! Marvelous! Marvelous! Thank you m’boy!” a smile adorned the Lord Maire’s face.

The mournful knot in J.J.’s heart loosened, ever-so-slightly, “It’s nice to see you in such good spirits today, Maire Marchand,” he said earnestly.

“Well of course!” the Lord Maire crowed, blinking up at him with a wide, toothy grin, “did you know . . . my _best friend’s son_ is getting married today! Ho-ho! I daresay, I’m nearly giddy as a schoolboy!”

With a wink and a grin and another wheezy laugh, the old man shuffled inside.

 

*****

 

Viktor wove his way through the trees, following Yuuri’s scent as best he could, plunging ever southward; past the Town Square, past the Livery and the Butcher, over the tributary stream, past the silent streets and finally, through a dense patch of thistles – which honestly had no business being there.

He followed the trail as far as he could, until he hit the tree-line; until there was nowhere to go but into the wide-open farmland beyond.

Viktor crept to the very edge of the trees and gazed out over the over rolling fields.

He was near the outskirts of The Village now; almost beyond the southern boundary.

Viktor sniffed to air for confirmation; Yuuri’s scent was growing faint.

A low, frustrated growl escaped his muzzle; there was nothing to do now but re-trace his steps.

Perhaps he should go a little bit closer to the houses this time . . .

Viktor ducked back into the trees, making nary as rustle as he passed.

Keeping his cover, he moved northward; slinking through the very edge of the foliage.

Just beyond the tree-line, to the west, sat a little row of cottages; all quaint and modest . . . save for the massive, two-story stonework house at the end of the lane. The grand abode towered above the other homes, jarringly out of place in the simple country tableaux.

Viktor put his nose to the air, and crept ever onward.

 

*****

 

The Sun was beginning to low, tipped far beyond the apex of noon and spilling out across the landscape, hot and yellow and runny.

It wasn’t ready to set quite yet, but it would be, soon enough.

Yuuri gazed at himself in the antique vanity mirror, feeling absolutely nothing at all.

Any minute now, Isabella would be barging in to drag him to the ceremony.

If he was lucky, that is.

If he wasn’t, it would be one of the others; Damien perhaps, or mercy forbid, _Stephan Boucher_.

Or possibly even J.J. himself.

Yuuri wandered back over to the window; he still hadn’t dressed.

He knew that he should. That he had to.

But he just couldn’t bring himself to don the hideous purple suit; if he did, he felt like there would be no turning back.

Yuuri gazed out over J.J.’s yard once again. There was no denying how large and stately, and even lovely it was, but for him, the pastoral fields and forests held nothing but contempt.

He had considered escaping, of course – a thousand and one plans sparking to life as the days had dragged on; negotiation, trickery, break outs . . .

But, in the end, he knew that there was no running from this.

There was a point when he’d thought he’d found an exit; for one brief, shining moment he’d been mad enough to believe that _Isabella Yang_ of all people might hold his salvation . . . but he’d been wrong.

Like most things, it was too much to hope for.

As Yuuri gazed out despondently at the wooded grove, a silver glare caught the corner of his eye.

Something _silver_ . . . in the _trees_?

Yuuri’s heart stuttered to a stop.

It couldn’t be.

Could it?

Yuuri pressed up against the widow, desperately squinting into the foliage; but now he saw only the gentle rustle of summer leaves and the swaying of pine in the breeze.

He hesitated a moment more, before pulling back with a sigh.

No. Of course it wasn’t.

That would be impossible.

His eyes were only playing tricks on him.

Eventually, Yuuri turned away from the window altogether, once again attempting to change.

He stroked a listless hand across the cheap velour of the tailcoat as if it were a taxidermy cat.

His heart filled with scorn.

He _hated_ this.

Not just the hideous suit. Not just the injustice of it all; the anger and the fear and the powerlessness. Not just the heartbreak; not just J.J., and their dismal future together.

No; the worst part . . . was the loneliness.

How could he live – how could _endure_ – in a world devoid of love; a world without his friends, without family, without music or dance or dreams?

Everything he’d ever loved was gone now; snatched away by the cruel whims of fate. 

He wouldn’t even have anyone at his own wedding; tragic and farcical as it was. Not a single loved one there to commemorate the occasion; no one to congratulate him, or tease him, or cheer him up, or wish him luck, or make inappropriate jokes.

No Phichit.

No Minako.

No Mari.

No Okāsan. No Otōsan. No Ojīsan. No Mæ̀. No Ph̀x.

No Chris or Masumi; no Mila or Sara or Georgi or Yuri or Nikolai or Otabek or Makka or Minami.

No Lilia. No Yakov.

No Band.

No joy.

No hope.

No Viktor.

And the crushing isolation which Yuuri felt now – the bleak, bitter solitude that robbed his world of colour and smothered his heart in silence – was utterly inescapable.

Yuuri turned sharply back to the window; throwing open the casement with a strangled cry – half gasp, half sob.

He was trapped; all alone in the world with a noose around his neck and an anchor lashed to his ankles.

Tears finally fell as Yuuri struggled to breathe; gasping and choking in the sweet summer air.

He hadn’t even been allowed to see Phichit in jail. For days, J.J. had kept him under lock and key, separated from his own brother; baiting Yuuri with the promise of a visit, so long as he cooperated.

Yuuri shook with sobs. He’d come back all this way, given up so much, done everything he could, and _still_ hadn’t been able to free Phichit; hadn’t even _seen him_ yet –

The cool breeze tickled his cheek, tugging at his bangs as he squeezed his eyes shut and finally managed to take a deep breath.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Just like Viktor had told him.

In.

Out.

In.

Yuuri bit his lip hard.

Breathe.

_Breathe, damn it!_

More tears clouded his vision. Yuuri screwed his eyes shut and gripped the window ledge hard enough to turn his knuckles white; trying to keep himself steady.

Trying not to panic.

Breathe.

“Breathe”.

Yuuri swallowed hard, re-positioning his hands on the sill.

He must really be losing it now; first thinking he had _seen_ Viktor . . . and now thinking he could _hear_ him, too.

Breathe.

“– Just breathe, Yuuri –”.

Breathe.

In.

“– I’m so sorry –”

Out.

“– never should have –”

In.

“– but I’m here now. All you have to do is –”

Yuuri held his breath.

He didn’t dare open his eyes.

“Yuuri? K-keep breathing Yuuri . . . deep breaths, Lyubov Moya,”

In.

Out.

“Good . . . good. You’re doing beautifully, solnyshko . . . now, can you look at me? Slowly. Just open your eyes and –”

Yuuri trembled and squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

No.

It-it couldn’t be.

This wasn’t real; it was too good to be true.

Maybe . . . if he just kept his eyes closed . . .

“Yuuri? Yuuri, look at me . . . please, Lyubov Moya?”

Yuuri let out a quiet sob and shook his head.

If he opened his eyes now, he knew it would only give him hope.

“I . . . can’t” he gasped.

“. . . why can’t you solnyshko?”

Viktor’s voice drifted weightlessly through Yuuri’s tortured mind.

“B-because,” Yuuri whimpered, “what if I open my eyes . . . and you’re not really there?”

His lower lip trembled; he bit it hard to make it stop.

A small sniffle came from below.

Slowly, a soft, steady paw curled overtop his own hand.

Yuuri had to bite back a cry.

He hesitantly blinked his eyes open.

Azure.

Azure and silver.

Azure eyes, silver locks, wolfish muzzle.

A face.

Viktor’s face.

Viktor himself, gazing up from the garden below.

The Beast had stretched to his full height; his horns just barely skimming the bottom of the windowsill, one massive arm reaching up awkwardly to clasp Yuuri’s hand.

A flood of tears blurred Yuuri’s vision as he leaned out the window, reaching for his Prince.

“Viktor, _what are you doing_ –? I thought you couldn’t –? Why did you –? It isn’t safe for you here! _What were you thinking_?”

Viktor only smiled, tears glittering in his arctic eyes as he gently took both of Yuuri’s hands, “I came to bring you home, of course”

“V-viktor . . .”

Yuuri began to weep in earnest now, falling to pieces under the onslaught of joy and guilt and heartache.

“I-I’m s-s-sorry, Viktor!” Yuuri sobbed, “I didn’t mean to! I-I-I couldn’t let J.J.–”

“Shh . . . it’s alright,” Viktor soothed, gracelessly stroking Yuuri’s floppy hair as the dancer all but dangled out the window, “Oh Yuuri. _My Yuuri_ . . . it’s not your fault, Lyubov Moya. It’s not your fault –”

“I missed you, _I missed you so much, Viktor_ –”

“I missed you too, Yuuri –”

“– And I want more than anything to go back with you –”

“– I saw what happened – in the mirror. I couldn’t bear to let you –”

“– But I . . . can’t . . .”

Viktor blinked up at Yuuri, hurt ghosting across his beautiful eyes.

Yuuri sniffled again, “I-if I don’t marry J.J., h-he’s gonna –”

“We won’t let him,” Viktor objected, “the Castle. The enchantments. They won’t –! He can’t –!”

“I won’t let you risk it!” Yuuri squeaked, “I-I can’t put everyone in danger like that! Not while I can stop it. I refuse to –”

“And I refuse to leave you here with that monster!” Viktor countered.

“P-please Viktor,” Yuuri sobbed, “You h-have to g-go! Now! If he finds you, he _will_ kill you!”

Viktor growled, a low rumble in his chest, “He’s a nothing but a coward –”

“A coward _with a gun_ , Viktor!” Yuuri insisted breathlessly, “If-If anything happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself! If it wasn’t for me, J.J. never even would have found you! He’ll _stop_ if I just –”

“ _No_!” Viktor cried, “Don’t do this, Yuuri! _I love you too much to let you throw your life away_!”

For a fraction of a second, time stood still; the only sound, their panting breaths, mingling in the afternoon heat.

Yuuri’s mind was suddenly blank, “You . . . you wha–?”

“I _know_ the risks,” Viktor insisted, “I know what _might_ happen. What we’re up against. But, Yuuri –” he took a deep breath, “I would rather face a battle with you by my side . . . than a future without you in it,”

And though his lips still trembled, Yuuri somehow managed to smile.

Viktor relaxed, his heart-shaped grin beaming up at Yuuri, “Besides . . .” his Prince teased, “I’m _way more_ afraid of Phichit than I am of J.J. – just _think_ what he’d do to me if I returned without you!”

Yuuri’s spirits lifted with his eyebrows, “Wait. What?”

“Phichit – he’s at the castle!” Viktor chirped, “The arrest wasn’t real. He sent me –!”

Yuuri’s head spun, “And . . . and what about Minako? She left, she’s missing –”

“I know . . . but we’ll find her, Yuuri. We _will_ ,” Viktor promised.

Yuuri nodded, leaning up on his elbows, dizzy from hanging over the window ledge.

“So . . . so what do we do?” He stammered, “What happens now?”

His Prince smirked up at him again, “You run away with me, of course,”

Adrenaline roared through Yuuri’s veins, snapping him out of his suffocating confusion.

“Then we – we have to go _now_ ,” he instructed.

Viktor beamed, “We can take the same path I used to get here, through the trees bordering town. It’s not _perfect_ cover, but it appears that my beastly attributes are finally of some use,”

“Wait!” Yuuri gasped, “How will I get out? J.J.’s men are downstairs and I _can’t_ –”

Viktor frowned for only a moment, before stepping back and opening his arms.

Yuuri’s eyes went wide, “Oh, _mercy_. Viktor, you _can’t_ be serious –”

“Can’t I?” Viktor goaded.

“Viktor, I am _not_ jumping out this window –”

“It barely two feet!” Viktor pouted, “I’ll catch you! I promise!”

“You’re going hurt yourself –”

“I won’t! Just trust me, Yuuri –”

“ _Trust_ isn’t the issue here! It’s _gravity_ –”

“Come on Yuuri! Please? _I_ jumped out a window for _you_!”

“What? _When_? Why did you –?”

_‘SLAM, SLAM, SLAM!’_

Both Viktor and Yuuri froze, looking around to see what had made such a ruckus.

_‘SLAM, SLAM, SLAM!’_

The cellar door rattled in the wind; the hollow, wooden sound echoing on the summer breeze.

Yuuri swallowed hard.

Right, no time.

Someone could find them any second.

He held his breath and vaulted up into the windowsill; Viktor had just enough time to register what was happening, before Yuuri slid down into his arms.

Without another word, Viktor raced them to safety beneath the shadow of the trees.

 

*****

 

“Well – That was a bust” Axel sighed.

“You said it,” Lutz agreed.

“At least it was fun!” Loop chirped.

The triplets had been thoroughly chewed out for their earlier ‘confetti prank’; now, they were setting tables for the reception as punishment under Yuuko’s watchful eye.

When the coast was clear, they slid behind the head table; taking cover inside the table tent.

“Well, what do we do now?” Axel whispered, “how are we gonna stop the wedding?”

Lutz shrugged, accidentally knocking over a glass. It smashed into a thousand pieces on the cobblestones below.

Loop grinned.

“Oops!” she squeaked, pretending to trip and spilling a bin of cutlery onto the ground.

Following her sister’s lead, Axel ‘innocently’ bumped the table; toppling a stack of plates perched on the corner.

“Aw, shucks!” she grinned, “I guess we’re _all_ a bit clumsy today,”

The girls exchanged wicked smirks.

“HEY! _WHAT ARE YOU THREE UP TO IN THERE_?”

The triplets froze.

“NOTHING!”

Yuuko stormed over with suspicious eyes; looking from her daughters to the debris at their feet.

“ _Nothing_?” she growled.

“OK, OK! YOU CAUGHT US!

“I SURRENDER!”

“DEATH FIRST!”

Yuuko crossed her arms and frowned at her children; waiting for an explanation.

“We’re trying to stop the wedding!” Axel confessed.

“Monsieur Chulanont was really upset about it!” Lutz added.

“He doesn’t think Yuuri should get married!” Loop finished.

“WE WERE JUST TRYING TO HELP!” they wailed in unison, throwing themselves on their mother’s mercy.

Yuuko stared down at the three of them, deep in thought.

The girls held their breath.

Slowly, Yuuko pivoted on her heel, flicking the stem of a wayward champagne flute.

‘ _Clink-Crunch_ ’

“Oh dear!” she gasped, “did _I_ do that? Silly me . . . I suppose we’ll just have to send J.J. off to find some more dishes . . . and some _sturdier tables_.”

With a very self-satisfied grin, Yuuko walked away.

 

*****

 

Isabella thundered down the dirt road, kicking up dust as she went.

For so long, she had felt so lost; so confused.

And now . . .

Now, she was hurt and humiliated and heart heartbroken – and covered in confetti – but at least she was thinking clearly. For the first time in months, she knew exactly what she had to do.

She had to stop this wedding.

Isabella reached J.J.’s house and flung the front door open; heavy pine crashing viciously against the wall.

The groomsmen were right where she’d left them.

“Isabella!” Marcel gasped, “What happened to–?”

“J.J. needs you down at the square,” she snapped, “ _now_ ,”

With a gracious nod, Marcel headed for the door; Damien sauntered after, snickering at her under his breath.

Stephan did not move; pickled like the useless egg he was.

“NOW,” Isabella barked.

If looks could kill, Stephan would have been a dead man.

A moment later he slowly staggered to his feet, trailing after his pals with heavy, drunken footsteps.

Isabella tugged her hunting jacket straight, shook some more confetti out of her hair and took a deep breath.

Right. Next step, find Katsuki and get some _real_ answers.

Isabella ascended the stairs nimbly, her heavy boots making nary a sound on the sanded steps.

And though she should have felt guilty, or contrite or conflicted; she didn’t.

Yuuri was right.

J.J. didn’t love him.

And he didn’t love her either.

“Katsuki!” Isabella called, pounding on the guest bedroom door, “hope you’re decent! I’m coming in!”

She barged through the door; finding nothing but an abandoned amethyst tailcoat on the other side.

Heart racing, Isabella searched the bedroom, the hall and the closet; all to no avail.

Apparently Katsuki had found the backbone to leave all on his own.

Perhaps that wasn’t the _best_ thing, given their current situation, but all the same, Isabella had to admit that she was impressed; she didn't think he had the nerve.

Unfortunately, Yuuri’s unexpected departure meant she would have to find her answers elsewhere.

Isabella bit her lip, planning her next move.

Where could Yuuri have gone?

The Gaol? The farm?

The groomsmen probably hadn’t seen anything; after all, it didn’t take a genius to sneak past those three.

So then . . ?

Lightning struck, and Isabella’s eyes went wide with epiphany.

She knew _exactly_ who to talk to.

Isabella turned and all-but-fled the house, heading straight for the cellar out back.

 

*****

 

_‘SLAM, SLAM, SLAM!’_

_‘SLAM, SLAM, SLAM!’_

_‘SLAM, SLAM, SLAM!’_

“Ugh! Dammit!” Minako cussed, throwing herself back on to her little wooden bench.

She thought she’d heard . . . _voices_.

But it must have just been J.J. and Isabella.

That, or her mind was playing tricks on her.

She’d been down in the cellar so long, she’d lost track of the days; what had it been now? Three? Four?

With no windows, it was impossible to tell, and her captors always came in the pinks and yellows of twilight; making it feel like no time had passed at all.

She hadn’t said a word, refusing to talk, refusing to give in; until the hunters had almost stopped coming alltogether.

So, in the damp, wine-smelling darkness of her little prison, she focused on the spell.

Focused on remembering.

Focused on being free.

Focused on going home.

Focused on bright blue eyes, and the name ‘Viktor Nikiforov’.

But nothing ever came to her.

Minutes – or possibly hours – later, a sharp sound shattered her lonesome silence.

_‘THUD,’_

_‘THUD, shuffle, cree-ka-CREEK, SLAM!’_

Harsh late-afternoon sunlight flooded the little stone cellar.

Minako shielded her eyes.

“Tell me about the beast,”

. . . _Isabella_?

“Please. I have to know _everything_!”

Minako blinked in the glare of the sun, refusing to speak.

Isabella seemed . . . off, somehow; she and J.J. must really be desperate now.

“I – I don’t care about the spell or the Castle or anything else,” the huntress insisted, drawing ever closer, “I just want to know the _truth_ ,”

Minako narrowed her eyes, “the _truth_?” she croaked suspiciously.

“Yes,” Isabella begged, “the _truth_. All of it,”

One graceful eyebrow arched as Minako settled back on the bench, “Is that so? Pretty sure you and J.J. already decided what the truth was . . . isn’t that why I’m here?”

Isabella flinched, as if Minako had landed a physical blow; the huntress bowed her head in shame.

“So . . .” Minako prompted acerbically, “Want to tell me why you’re so interested in listening to me all of a sudden?”

“Because, I was wrong,”

Isabella’s words whispered through the shadowy cell, so soft that Minako had to lean forward to catch them.

A reprimand was poised on the tip of the tutor’s tongue, but she held it.

There was something about the huntress – the way she spoke, the way she held herself – something shy and reticent that was worryingly out of place on the bold Isabella Yang. A frantic little feeling started to nibble at Minako’s bones.

“And how, may I ask, did you come to this earth-shattering conclusion?” she demanded.

Something was wrong here; very, _very_ wrong.

Isabella swallowed hard, “J.J. lied to me . . .”

“That’s no surprise,” Minako scoffed, “what I meant was –”

“Look, I know I fucked up . . . but this isn’t about me!” Isabella objected, “It’s . . . it’s Yuuri, he’s –”

Minako leapt to her feet, “what _about_ Yuuri?” she snarled.

Finally, Isabella found the nerve to look her in the eye, “I think he’s in trouble,” she confessed, “and – I don’t know _how_ – but I _think_ it’s J.J.’s fault”.

“What?” Minako roared, adrenaline rushing through her veins, “Where is he? What did you people –?”

“Yuuri came back,”

Three little words pinned Minako in place.

Isabella took a deep breath, “About three nights ago, Yuuri came back,” she explained, “He and J.J. are getting married. Today. In an hour. I need your help to stop the wedding,”

Minako saw red; she shook like a leaf, vibrating from the top of her head to the tips of her fingers, “Tell me _everything_ ”.

Isabella did, recounting the terrible events which had transpired over the last few days – everything from Yuuri’s return, to the wedding, to the petition, to mere moments ago, when she’d discovered Yuuri’s disappearance.

Minako collapsed back onto her little bench; cradling her head in her hands. It was the only way to stop shuddering, to stop shaking, to keep her mind from racing out of control.

“Look,” Isabella beseeched, her voice ringing through the dim little cellar, “I know you hate me, and you have every right to . . . but we have to stop this. I – I’m worried about J.J –”

“ _J.J._?” Minako seethed, “Yuuri’s the one in danger, and all you care about is –!”

“ _No_!” Isabella objected, “That’s not what I – ugh!” she kicked a wayward crate in frustration, “I’m not worried about _him_ . . . I’m worried about what he might _do_ ,”

Minako hardly felt her own heartbeat.

 “Listen,” Isabella urged, “I know J.J. better than anyone. I know how he is and I know what he’s capable of . . . but deep down, he’s a _good_ man, with a _good_ heart. He – He’s not perfect, but this – this lying, scheming, bloodthirsty _monster_ – it's not _him_ –”

Minako shot her a withering glare; but Isabella pressed on, “I know, alright? I _know_. Maybe I just didn’t want to see it before . . . but something is  _wrong_ with J.J.. This whole thing with Yuuri and the Beast and the Spell . . . it’s brought out the worst in him. It’s like he’s _obsessed_! He isn’t thinking clearly – and sooner or later, he’s going to get someone _killed_ . . . maybe even himself,”

The huntress’s words rattled around Minako’s ribs, stealing the very breath from her lungs. A war raged inside of her; spite clashing against compassion as the tutor forced her animosity aside.

Isabella was right.

Minako wanted to hate her, wanted to lash out and berate her for her lovesick idiocy and poor judgement and complete lack of common sense.

But that wasn’t going to help anyone.

Sure, Isabella had made a mistake – several, in fact – but she was here now. She was helping. She was trying to atone for her actions.

 _And_ she’d admitted to being wrong; even if the road had been long, at least she’d found her way eventually.

Minako took a deep breath and stood, eyes locked on the huntress, “He’s a prince,” she disclosed; a peace offering, to show she’d accepted Isabella’s truce.

The fierce lines of the huntress’ face softened into something confused and incredulous.

“The Beast – as you know him – is actually human,” Minako confessed, “He’s not a monster; he’s just a man under a spell. A Prince . . . and his name is Viktor,”

Isabella’s eyes grew just a little bit wider, but considering the circumstances, she kept her composure well.

“Pretty sure I wouldn’t just forget a Prince,” she murmured, though her voice was filled with disbelief, rather than scorn.

Minako frowned, “You would if there was magic involved,” she replied ominously, “and if it all happened before you were born”.

Isabella didn’t flinch, “What about the Tinker? And the wolf? You owe this ‘Viktor’ some kind of debt?”

“Viktor saved Phichit’s life after a wolf attack, but _there is no ‘debt’_ ,” Minako insisted, “Yuuri stayed at the castle of his own free will. As a _friend_ , not a _sacrifice_ ,”

“Wait. If . . . if what you’re saying is true . . .” Isabella swallowed hard, halted by the horror of her dawning realization, “If they’re actually _friends_ , then . . . then why was Yuuri so spooked when he came back? Why would he agree to marry J.J. if–?”

Minako sighed, “Your guess is as good as mine,” she replied morosely.

Isabella went pale, “J.J. – he said that _Yuuri_ wanted him to kill The Beast. He said that _Yuuri_ wanted you and Phichit _gone_ –” her words grew frantic, as she pieced the information together, “he has a plan to attack the castle. He knows where it is. He said we had to destroy it . . . for _Yuuri_. To keep him safe. He – he said –”

“Maybe Yuuri found out about the attack,” Minako interrupted, her heart racing to the beat of Isabella’s hysteria, “Maybe he thought he could talk J.J. out of it by –”

She stopped abruptly, too repulsed to continue.

The little cellar was swallowed by silence.

The women locked eyes as they realized what must have happened.

The hunter and the dancer had made a deal; Yuuri’s hand, for J.J.’s surrender.

Only, J.J. had no intention of keeping his end of the bargain.

“Well . . .” Minako murmured, at last breaking the silence, “it seems you’re not the only person J.J. lied to,”

Isabella’s hands curled into fists.

“ _Damn it, J.J._!” she roared, furiously kicking over a nearby stack of crates. They thundered to the ground, splintering apart under the force of her boot.

Minako felt like kicking something herself.

Isabella turned back to Minako; frantic and furious. “So, this ‘spell’ –” she snapped, “You know how to break it?”

“We have some thoughts,” Minako confirmed.

“Then I’ll do what I can to help,” the huntress vowed, "just say the word,"

Minako pondered a moment; fear and confusion played keep-away with her logic as she desperately tried to come up with a plan.

“Maybe . . . maybe Yuuri changed his mind,” she posited, “if he discovered that J.J. was going to double-cross him, he might have gone back to the Castle to warn them,”

Isabella was pacing now, “that _would_ explain why he was acting so weird today,” she agreed, “and his sudden disappearance,”

“Well then, we need to make sure he gets there,” Minako concluded.

Isabella nodded, firm and resolute, “follow me”.

The huntress led them up out of the cellar and into the hazy sunlight.

The summer breeze filled Minako’s fermented lungs with relief.

“Find Yuuri and get him the hell out of here,” Isabella instructed. She pointed to the distant tree-line, “that grove runs all the way past the square – right to the main road – it’s the easiest way to sneak around town,”

“How do you know that?” Minako asked suspiciously.

Isabella shrugged, “J.J. and I used to play in there all the time . . . when we were kids,”

Minako hummed, apprehension gnawing at her insides, “Got it . . . but how do I find him? Yuuri might be well on his way to the Castle by now, or hiding out at my place, or cornered somewhere in town –”

“Then I’ll keep an eye out for him too,” Isabella proposed, “I’ll make a sweep, under the pretense of gathering everyone for the wedding. Hopefully, that will clear the streets for you a bit. Once you find him, leave town through the trees. If, by some chance, I run into Yuuri first . . . I’ll make something up and find a way to get him out. And if all else fails, we’ll rendezvous back at the cottage on the hill outside of town”.

Minako gaped at the huntress, momentarily taken aback by her impressive tactical mind.

“What?” Isabella huffed.

“Nothing,” Minako murmured, “It’s just . . . surprisingly nice to have you on our side,”

Isabella’s eyes dropped to the ground, “If I’d known then what I know now . . . I would have been on it from the beginning”.

The leaves rustled in the late summer breeze.

Isabella awkwardly cleared her throat, “So, sound like a plan?”

“Just one more thing,” Minako added, “Phichit is –”.

Isabella groaned, “Oh, shit! I forgot–”

“It’s fine!” Minako interrupted, “He’s safe with The Captain. Nishigori doesn’t know about the spell, but he’s a good man. I just meant – when you can – tell Phichit what’s happened?”

Isabella nodded, “will do. Now get outta here, would ya? We don’t have much time,”

Her words were gruff, but not unkind.

With a little salute, Minako turned and crept around the side of J.J.’s house; Isabella made for the open street.

Minako lay in wait a moment, watching the huntress disappear into the distance; her whirring mind and nagging pulse and aching spirit all turning to the same pressing question.

Where in the world was Katsuki Yuuri?

 

*****

 

“Viktor . . . you can _really_ put me down now,” Yuuri whispered as the two crept through the cover of trees.

They’d made their way back to the secret grove behind the cemetery wall; having crept through the trees past the Town Square and the Livery and the Butcher, back over the tributary stream, past the silent streets and through an annoyingly dense patch of thistles – which honestly had no business being there.

“Apologies, solnyshko, but I’m afraid I can’t,” Viktor teased, “after everything that’s happened, I’m never letting you go again,”

Yuuri tried to suppress a snort, “You’re terrible!” he chided.

Suddenly, Viktor slid to a stop at the tree-line.

“Oh no . . .” Yuuri breathed, taking in the scene.

A legion of guards paced the road, almost directly in front of them; the length of it had been divided into sections for patrol.

“Yes,” Viktor agreed, squinting into the distance, “There’s some nobleman here for your nuptials, guards and all. Poor fellow, he’ll be _ever so disappointed_ ,”

Viktor smirked; Yuuri remained stoic.

“There are too many. We can’t get past them,” the dancer decided.

“They were far more concentrated on the village limit when I arrived,” Viktor agreed, “I simply snuck past them on my way in, but it seems they’ve fanned out since then,”

“We’ll have to find another way,” Yuuri puzzled, “but if everyone is gathered around the Square and the Tavern . . . I mean, the safest thing would be to circle around to the other side of town. We’ll have to go back the way we came and head to the west side of The Village without getting caught. It’s a bit more exposed, but there may be fewer guards there”.

Viktor nodded, slinking back into the trees with Yuuri cradled tightly in his arms.

 

*****

 

A tentative finger tapped J.J. on the shoulder.

“NOW WHAT?” he roared, finally at the end of his patience.

Today had been a _disaster_.

First the banners and chairs had refused to cooperate, _then_ there was the incident with the confetti, _then_ all the table legs had mysteriously ‘given out’, somehow managing to shatter nearly  _every single place setting_ he owned, _then_ the champagne had been spilled, the flowers had been plucked, the cake had been smushed, the doves had been set free, and _now_ –

“I can’t find the rings,” Damien huffed.

J.J.’s blood ran cold, “What do you mean ‘ _you can’t find them_ ’?” he hissed.

“They’s were . . . they _weren’t_ there where you said they’d be, Jaye-J –” Stephan slurred, taking a swig from the 'celebratory' flask at his hip.

Marcel frowned, “Don’t worry, J.J., we’ll find them . . . but, is it at all _possible_ that you could have left them somewhere else?”

J.J. was ready to explode.

*** 

From their hiding spot behind a sad little birch tree at the edge of the square, the triplets exchanged wicked grins, watching as J.J. imploded.

“Well, what did he expect?” Axel smirked, twirling two brassy bands around her index finger.

“I know!” Lutz agreed, “Leaving them locked in a personal safe in the Town Hall records room where _anyone_ could just waltz in and take them? What did he expect?”

With a shrug, she tucked a make-shift lock pick back into the pocket of her sundress.

“Completely irresponsible!” Axel agreed.

“Mm-Hmm,” Loop nodded sanctimoniously, “Poor, dumb J.J. – he never stood a chance,”

 

*****

 

The setting sun shimmered on the horizon.

Minako scanned the streets, as her own front door slammed shut behind her.

No Yuuri here.

Great, just _great_.

Minako closed her eyes in frustration; she had to find Yuuri _now_ – the wedding was about to start any minute!

Alright. Think.

 _Think_.

Where would Yuuri have gone?

The most obvious answers, of course, were her place, the gaol, and the cottage.

And the castle – _obviously_ – but if Yuuri had already skipped town, there wasn’t much Minako could do but follow.

So . . . if Yuuri wasn’t here . . .

Then that meant he was either safely out of town by now . . . or he was minutes away from being married; desperately outmatched and hopelessly out of her reach.

Minako’s stomach lurched. There was no way for her to get to the gaol; so all she could do now was head to the cottage. If Yuuri wasn’t there, she would just have to wait and hope that Isabella would come through; should the worst prove to be true.

With a deep breath, Minako darted out onto the road; a worn patch of earth which led from her house to the Marketplace.

On steady, silent dancer’s feet, she carefully crept over the cobblestones; slaloming her way through the streets as she headed for the grove.

Mercifully, the Marketplace was empty. It would seem that Isabella’s sweep had been a success, at least; Minako met nary a soul as she scampered for shelter amongst the elegant tables and cheerful decorations.

The empty lanes and alleys watched her progress with silent mockery; the only sound, her own racing heartbeat.

Minako slowly picked her way from one piece of cover to the next; hiding behind barrels, beside crates, around corners and awnings and trash.

By now, everyone must be in the square for the wedding; but even so, she couldn’t be too –.

“This way?”

“No, keep going,”

Voices echoed towards her from the end of the street.

Minako muffled a gasp and ducked around the nearest corner; pressing herself flat to the crumbling wall of the Butcher Shop.

“What was that?”

Minako held her breath.

Voices.

Two of them.

She didn’t recognize whose.

“– thought I heard something –”

The first voice spoke again; it was deep – deep and rich and sonorous with a touch of an accent; commanding and regal, yet oddly . . . soothing.

Minako fought to place it in her mind, to no avail.

Who around here sounded like –?

“– Everyone’s in the square, I think –”

She stifled a gasp; dropping her previous train of thought.

“– Hurry –”

Now, _that_ voice, she _knew_.

She nearly collapsed with relief.

“– Our only shot –”

“Yuuri!” Minako cried, abandoning her cover, “Thank Mercy! I’m so glad I found –”

She rounded the corner, coming face to face with –

Minako’s eyes went wide.

Her mind stopped.

Her words screeched to a halt; left dangling in the summer sunset like a criminal in a noose. 

 _Eyes_.

 _Blue eyes_.

 _Beautiful breathtaking blue eyes_ ; _like glaciers, like sea glass, like_ –

 

*****

 

Viktor froze.

 _Minako_.

It was _her_.

It was _really her_.

She was right here. Right now. Right in front of him.

After all this time –

A few shallow laugh lines added depth to her otherwise flawless veneer and a single rebellious grey hair had grown into the waterfall of her hair; but other than that, she was exactly as he remembered her.

The courtesan just gaped back, swaying ever-so-slightly on her feet.

She looked like she was about to faint.

“Minako!” Yuuri cried, pushing himself out of Viktor’s arms.

Viktor allowed him to slide free, gently lowering Yuuri’s nimble feet to the cobblestones beneath.

“Minako! You’re okay! Where have you been? We have to –”

“Yuu . . . ri?” Minako drawled, never once taking her eyes off of Viktor.

Her face scrunched in pain.

The Prince just stood there, helplessly watching as Minako’s pebble-gray eyes filled with tears.

He looked away abruptly; slouching in on himself and dropping his great beastly head in shame.

That’s right . . . she didn’t remember him.

She couldn’t.

All she saw was a monster.

Viktor’s heart nearly shattered.

Yuuri reached out to Minako; holding her steady as she teetered on worn leather slippers.

“It’s alright Minako,” Yuuri soothed, “Don’t worry! It’s only Vi– I mean, you don’t remember him, but – but you know him, I swear!”

Minako said nothing, so Yuuri rambled on, “He’s here to help! Honest! His name is –”

“V-viktor . . .”

Soft scuffles inched across the cobblestones; stuffy sniffles suffused the air.

Slender hands slowly tangled into the fur of Viktor’s cheeks; gently tilting his face upward.

Minako let out a sputtering sob; part wail, part laugh.

“ _Viktor Nikiforov_ ,” she chided sweetly, brushing a long strand of silver out of his eyes, “what on Mercy’s green earth did you do to yourself?”

“ _Me_?” Viktor objected, “I didn’t ‘ _do’_ anything!”

He smiled, even as his own blue eyes began to fill with tears.

Minako snorted, “ _Didn’t do anything_? Look at you!” she scolded, tears streaming down her cheeks, “I’m gone for a few months and _this_ is what happens!”

Viktor dropped his gaze, “It’s been a _bit_ longer than that, I think . . .” he murmured ruefully.

Minako stared for a moment more – eyes wide, lip quivering – before collapsing into Viktor’s arms for a hug. He caught her easily and returned the embrace; holding her as she shook with sobs against his silver fur.

“You . . . remember?” He whimpered, so quiet that only Minako could hear; strangled by hope and relief and guilt and a thousand other unnameable things.

She didn’t reply; she only cried and held him tighter.

For Viktor, it was answer enough.

After some time, she peeled herself out of the Prince’s arms to fling herself at Yuuri.

“And _you_ ,” she admonished, squeezing the dancer like her life depended on it, “what do you think you’re doing, running off and getting engaged to _J.J._ like that? You’re supposed to be the _responsible_ one!”

Yuuri stammered for only a moment, “I didn’t! I mean, it wasn’t –” he let out a resigned sigh, relaxing into the familiar embrace, “I’m sorry,” he murmured into the crook of her neck.

At length, Minako released him, pulling a little handkerchief from her bodice to dab at her watery eyes.

Viktor frowned sympathetically.

Wait.

That handkerchief –

Was the stitching . . . gold?

It couldn’t be –

Had she really kept it? All this time?

“W-what about _you_?” Yuuri demanded, turning to Minako, “Where have _you_ been –?” his attempted reprimand missed the mark entirely, undermined by the concern in his voice and the trembling of his lip.

Minako sniffed haughtily as she tucked the handkerchief back into her bodice, “for _your_ information,” she huffed, “I spent the last few days _locked in J.J.’s cellar_ –”

“You _what_?” Yuuri squeaked, trying to keep quiet, despite his outrage.

Without meaning to, Viktor growled; _Jean Jacque Leroy_ . . . he would _pay_ for this.

“He was trying to find the castle,” Minako explained, “but, _unfortunately_ for him, he chose the _wrong_ person to interrogate,” she nimbly smoothed her dress and her hair back into place with a little frown, “Isabella got me out. She . . . wanted to make amends”.

“ _Isabella_?” Viktor queried, a sudden flash of possessiveness spurring his tongue, “Who’s _Isabella_?”

“She’s J.J.’s –?” Yuuri stopped abruptly, brow furrowed as he searched for the right word.

Minako raised a brow, “Friend?” she suggested, “Lieutenant? Better-Half?”

Yuuri shrugged at Viktor, “something like that,” he agreed.

“Whatever she is, she knows the truth now,” Minako interjected, “and she managed to get everyone off the streets and into the Square for us – so _I for one_ think we should take advantage of this rather generous opportunity before J.J. realizes his _groom_ is missing!”

Viktor and Yuuri both nodded; sober and serious once more.

“Isabella said to head for the grove,” Minako recited, “it reaches all the way to –”

“No good,” Yuuri objected, “We just came from there. Marchand’s guards are patrolling the road. We’ll have to go around the other way, by the school house”.

Minako bit her lip, “I don’t like it . . . but . . . if everyone’s off the street, maybe we’ll be alright,”

A crow cawed in the distance, making them jump.

Now, the sun was half gone; spritely yellow bleeding into goopy orange on the horizon.

Yuuri took a deep breath, “Alright. Let’s go,”

Alert and apprehensive, he led them back into the maze of cobblestones; Viktor brought up the rear.

And despite the danger they faced, the Prince couldn’t help but smile.

Phichit was safe, Minako had been found and Yuuri was back in his arms. They were all together now, and soon, they would all be free – of The Village, of the spell, of their woefully lonely lives – and everything would be right again.

 

*****

 

J.J. looked to the sky; the sun was halfway down.

The Square was full to bursting with chattering townsfolk; every seat occupied, save for one.

The ceremony should have started by now.

 _Damn it_!

 _Where the hell was Isabella_?

Somewhere far away, Marcel was nattering in his ear.

They still hadn’t found the rings.

“Forget it! Just _forget it_!” J.J. raged, turning on his hunting party, “Go back to my place and get my mother’s jewellery box. There must be _something_ in there we can use,”

“Shure thing your majeshty –” Stephan slurred petulantly.

Damien rolled his eyes.

“Boucher,” Marcel scolded, “get a hold of yourself!” he turned back to J.J. with a frown, “we’ll be right back” he apologized.

Marcel yanked hard on the meathead’s lapel, leading him out of the square. Damien sailed apathetically after them.

“ _And find out what’s taking Yuuri and Isabella so damn long_!” J.J. hollered after them.

He was starting to get a _very bad_ feeling.

*** 

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Axel wailed; still spying on J.J. from behind the birch tree.

“What? WHAT?” Lutz cried, springing to her feet.

“We took the rings, and even THAT didn’t stop him!” Axel lamented.

Loop growled, “That J.J. is one persistent son of a –”

“Come on, _think_!”

“There must be _something else_ we can –”

“Girls?”

The triplets jumped right out of their skin.

“Oh, hi Otōsan!” Axel yelped, “didn’t see you there!”

“We’re not doing anything suspicious!” Lutz cried.

“Honest!” Loop vowed, crossing her heart.

Nishigori briefly scrutinized his daughters, and then let out a weary a sigh; deciding it was probably better to just let it go.

At the moment, he had bigger problems.

“Just go sit,” he surrendered, “It’s starting any minute,”

With three identical frowns, the girls toddled off to find their mother and sit.

Nishigori grunted in approval, turning back to the problem at hand.

He swivelled straight into Isabella Yang.

“Ah! Captain!”

“S-sorry, Isabella! Didn’t see you there!”

“Me either. I – uh – I was looking for someone –”

“Huh. You and me both,” Nishigori offered with a shrug.

Isabella bit her lip, “But, everyone is _here_ . . . except for Lord Maire Marchand”.

The Captain’s face fell, “ _I noticed_ ,” he replied pointedly.

“You too?”

“Mm-Hmm”

Isabella swallowed hard, “None of his attendants have seen him?”

“Nope,” Nishigori sighed, “no one here either. Louis said he left him at the Tavern . . . but I can tell you for a fact, he’s not there anymore,”

Isabella nodded, shaky and uncertain, “I’m sure he’s fine, wherever he is . . . he’s a grown man, after all,” she offered meekly.

“Even so . . .” Nishigori objected, “I don’t like the idea of him wandering around town all on his own. Not in his condition –”

“– and with his _memory_ issues,” Isabella finished.

They frowned at one another beneath the eerie orange sky.

“This is _bad_ ,” Nishigori groaned, “this is _really_ bad,”

 

*****

 

“Keep going”

“To the end?”

“To the end,”

“Are you sure? It’ll be faster if we –”

“We’ll have more cover if we go around back – Viktor’s already towering over the rooftops as it is!”

Yuuri turned, looking to his Prince; Minako had a point.

Viktor beamed back innocently.

Yuuri couldn’t help but return the smile.

He resumed course, leading his loved ones to the very edge of town.

Slowly, silently, they crept along as blazing orange turned to blushing pink in the distance.

Almost there . . . almost . . .

“Hullo? I say! Is someone there?”

Yuuri stopped dead in his tracks.

The next instant, a stooping figure in a thick fur coat rounded the corner.

“Pardon an old man’s follies, but I was out for a beverage and I seem to have –”

The Lord Maire froze.

Yuuri couldn’t breathe; he didn’t dare look behind him.

“Seem . . . seem to have,” the Lord Maire continued, whistling like a tea kettle as his tongue caught up to his eyes, “lost my . . . way . . .”

His face scrunched in confusion; his expression dim and distant.

Minako sprang forward, “Lord Maire Marchand! How wonderful to –”

“A B-B-BEAST! A MONSTER! IN MY TOWN! TO THE DEPTHS WITH YOUR ‘WONDERFUL’, THERE'S A BEAST IN MY TOWN! WE’LL NOT SURRENDER, YOU FOUL CREATURE! YOU HEAR? WE’LL FIGHT TO THE LAST! TO THE LAST, I SAY! ALL MEN TO ARMS! TO ARMS! TO ARMS AT ONCE! MAN THE BATTLEMENTS! MAN THE CANNONS! MAN THE –”

Minako swivelled on her heel, “ _RUN_!”

Yuuri did as he was told; adrenaline surging as they raced back towards the grove.

 

*****

 

“ _ISABELLA_?” J.J. thundered, “ _WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN_?”

Isabella groaned; _damn it_ , she’d been spotted.

“Out looking for your _special guest_!” She replied indignantly, poking J.J. in the chest, “The Captain and I were just –”

For once, J.J. didn’t rise to her bait.

“Where’s Yuuri?” He demanded, “ _WHERE IS HE, ISABELLA_?”

“He’s . . . around . . .”

“It’s alright, J.J.,” The Captain soothed, “I’m sure Yuuri is just fine. We’re a bit behind schedule, but I’ve got all my officers out searching for–”

A musket shot rang out in the distance.

The world went still.

Slowly, the shouting of guardsmen filled the air; swelling like blood from a wound.

Isabella swallowed hard; this was _not_ going to end well.

 

*****

 

“There! Just . . . a bit . . . further!”

Yuuri panted hard, as the cries of Lord Maire Marchand chased them through the streets.

The old man was gone, faded into the distance as they ran. If they could just make it to the trees, they’d still have a chance, so long as no one else spotted them.

The doddering, 90-year-old Lord Maire wasn’t the most _reliable_ eyewitness, after all.

Yuuri’s legs were numb as his feet pounded the pavement.

They were almost to the grove.

Almost free –

Almost safe –

Almost –

“ _WHAT THE HELL_?”

Yuuri slid to a stop; Minako crashed into him from behind.

Before them, stood J.J.’s hunting party; frozen in shock.

Marcel dropped a jewellery box he’d been holding; glittering gems rolled across the ground like marbles.

“ _Yuuri_? _Minako_? W-what in the name of all things merciful –?”

“Dupont! Dupont!” Stephan cried, “I bet is-s-s him! J.J.’s _beastie_! He came fer the party n he’s as ugly as he said! Looks like we get a weddin’ day shoot off after all!”

Damien took off toward the square, “I’ll get J.J.!” he hollered, “don’t let them escape!”

Marcel’s face was a mask of horror, but Stephan just smirked.

“ _Here beastie, beastie, beastie_ . . .”

A musket shot rang out in the distance.

The ball glanced off the corner of a nearby building, pelting Yuuri in the back with little bits of plaster.

“Marchand’s guards!” Minako cried.

Behind them, two musketeers crouched behind a couple of crates; one was re-loading, while the other took aim.

A second shot fired, ricocheting off an aluminium door sign.

Yuuri dodged; throwing himself to the ground with a yelp.

A blood-curdling roar tore the twilight asunder as Viktor leapt to shield him.

The Prince snarled at their enemies; low and feral like a wolf as he guarded his beloved.

“V-Viktor –” Yuuri panted, “I-I’m fine! I’m okay –”

“WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE! NOW!” Minako screamed.

An instant later, the ground vanished; a strong silver arm had wrapped around Yuuri’s waist, hoisting him into the air.

“HOLD ON!” Viktor hollered, pulling Minako gently into his chest.

The first musket was ready to fire once more.

Without warning, Viktor leapt.

The trio sailed straight up into the air, landing roughly on the Butcher Shop roof; sending a few loose shingles clattering to the cobbles below.

Yuuri gasped for air; pinned against Viktor’s chest like a child holding a plush toy.

The sight which greeted him stole his breath entirely.

In the distance, a flood of people were spilling out from the Square; and at the head of the mob stood none other than Jean Jacques Leroy.

The sky clung to the innocent coral of sunset as torches flickered to life below; night was about to fall.

“What now? Which way?” Viktor cried, scanning the horizon for an escape route.

Another musket ball sailed by, flying harmlessly into the distance.

“We’re still in range! Can you out-run them?” Minako suggested.

Yuuri looked down and regretted it instantly.

Marchand’s guards were starting to flank them, moving into position on either side of the row of shops.

“ _I’ll have to try_ ”

Viktor took a single step back, before pushing himself forward into a sprint.

He leapt from rooftop to rooftop as more shots rang out under the summer sky.

Yuuri tried not to scream; just closed his eyes and held on tight.

A barrage of gunshots hemmed them down, sending Viktor sliding for cover behind a crumbling chimney.

“FORCE THEM DOWN!”

Lord Maire Marchand’s order pieced the night.

“READY MEN! SECOND WAVE AIM! FIRST WAVE RE-LOAD! SECOND WAVE . . . FIRE ALL!”

The trio ducked as another volley headed their way.

Viktor shifted to shield Yuuri and Minako with his massive silver body; tucking them more securely behind the chimney.

Yuuri’s nostrils filled with brick dust as wave after wave of musket balls chipped away at their cover.

Viktor grunted in pain; a snarl that petered out into a mewl.

“V-viktor!” Yuuri cried, “what’s wrong? Are you hit?”

“Grazed,” He answered through gritted fangs, “I’m fine. Just grazed –”

“SHH!” Minako hissed, “listen, they’re re-loading,”

From below, they could hear the Lord Maire’s cries.

“NO THIRD WAVE? WHAT DO YOU MEAN, NO THIRD WAVE? IN MY DAY, SOLIDIERS DIDN’T MAKE EXCUSES –”

“I can make it to the Tavern,” Viktor panted, “Off the roof, down the alley, around the school house . . . then we make a run for the forest,”

“Viktor, wait!” Yuuri begged, “You’re hurt –!”

Without a word, Viktor scooped his charges back up into his arms.

He rose from their cover like a phoenix; his silhouette massive and menacing against the setting sun.

The villagers responded with shrieks of terror; the clamor almost deafening.

One voice stood out amongst all the others.

“STOP THEM! _That MONSTER is kidnapping my fiancée_!”

Yuuri suddenly felt sick.

No . . . no, that _wasn’t_ ; Viktor _wasn’t_ . . .

That very second, Viktor took off again, racing at full-speed to the end of the slippery, slanted roof.

His claws gripped the ledge, ready to push off.

“YOU'S ALL PATHETIC! THIS IS HOW A _REAL_ MAN WINS A WEDDING DAY SHOOT OFF!”

Stephan Boucher held aloft a heavy bayoneted rifle.

A single shot fired from below.

Viktor roared in pain, tumbling from the rooftop.

They spiraled down into the Marketplace like confetti; landing with a ‘FWOOSH’ on the large white table tent. They hug there for a moment, suspended in shock, before the thin tent-legs snapped, dropping them painfully onto the set table beneath.

Cries and cheers of victory rang out all around, as Yuuri struggled to sit up straight. He heard the snap and crunch of broken glass as he slid clumsily to his feet, yanking the white canvas away to dislodge his friends.

“V-viktor? Minako? Viktor!”

Slowly, the great, shaggy beast sat up; Minako cradled tightly to his chest.

Viktor stood and picked his way off the ruined tent; he put Minako down gently in front of him, but she still stumbled on the stone steps underfoot.

“C’mon –” She mumbled, “we gotta . . . we gotta –”

The Prince shook out his mane, wincing as he did so. The silver fur on his right side was painted red.

“Viktor? Viktor, you’re hit!” Yuuri’s eyes began to water.

“It’s alright, Solnyshko,” Viktor promised with a weak little smile, “I’m fine. Just another graze. A bit deeper this time, but –”

Yuuri flung himself at Viktor; the Prince grunted at the impact, but curled his arms around Yuuri all the same.

The noisy throng of people surrounded them, pressing ever tighter; Yuuri could hear their cries.

“W-we’ll f-f-fix this, Viktor” Yuuri stammered, “We will. I won’t let them hurt you again. We’ll just explain –”

“Yuuri,” Minako intoned; flat and exhausted.

Yuuri turned in Viktor’s embrace, shoving down a shriek.

They were utterly trapped now; a thick mob of furious villagers circling them on all sides. A dozen of Marchand’s personal guards stood on the front lines, creating a perimeter. They were led by the Lord Maire, who was currently sputtering with rage and spouting off nonsense instructions.

“HOIST THE CANNONS! GO TO, BRUTE! GO TO!”

J.J. was at his side, sporting an expression of unadulterated hatred. The hunting party flanked him, with Isabella directly to his right.

On the other side of the Lord Maire stood Captain Nishigori; the half-dozen regular town guards were kept busy, each frantically loading a new wave of muskets for Marchand’s men, with what seemed to be supplies from the town’s own armoury.

“We have you surrounded, _BEAST_!” J.J. snarled, “Now, _release my fiancée_!”

“YES! SURRENDER THE BOY AT ONCE, YOU MONSTER!”

Yuuri could feel the vibrations in Viktor’s chest as his Prince snarled in response, “ _NEVER_!”

He held Yuuri tighter.

“Viktor, No!” Yuuri wailed, “Please! Don’t provoke them! They think you’re –”

“YOU HEARD THE MONSTER!” Lord Maire Marchand hollered, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS OR WHERE IT CAME FROM, BUT IT REFUSES TO SURRENDER AND WE’LL NOT HAVE IT!”

The villagers roared in agreement.

“SHOOT IT! SHOOT IT NOW!” the Lord Maire commanded, “LET THE RIVERS RUN RED WITH OUR VICTORY!”

The guards took aim.

“READY WAVE ONE!”

“STOP!” J.J. pushed forward, “DON’T SHOOT! You’ll hit Yuuri!”

The Lord Maire turned an owlish eye on him, “Oh, come now, Alain!” he chastised, “One casualty is a small price to pay for glory! They’ll be telling tales of this battle for –”

“N-no! Please! Wait!” Yuuri cried, pushing free of Viktor’s embrace, “We – we can negotiate! He’s not kidnapping me! And he’s not dangerous!” he took a single shaky step forward, “See?”

Conflicted murmurs rustled through the air; J.J.’s scowl deepened.

“P-please,” Yuuri beseeched, “just let me explain!”

Slowly, J.J. began to approach him.

A hundred people held their breath.

The Hunter didn’t stop until he was toe-to-toe with the dancer.

“So . . . _this_ is your Beast, is it?” J.J. sneered, so quietly only Yuuri could hear.

Yuuri’s lip trembled, but he held firm, “his name is _Viktor_ . . . and _I love_ –”

“ _DON’T SAY IT_!” J.J. snarled, “You and I had I _deal_ , Yuuri. I thought maybe this time you’d changed . . . but all you did was break my heart _again_ ,”

Without another word, J.J.’s hand shot forward, clamping like a vice around Yuuri’s bicep. He yanked hard, pulling Yuuri off balance and dragging him back towards the mob.

“ _Yuuri_!” Viktor’s cry echoed through the marketplace. He lurched forward to follow, but was blocked by half a dozen shiny bayonets.

“Ow!” Yuuri gasped, “J.J., let go! _You’re hurting me_!” He dug his heels in, trying to resist, but his leather shoes slid uselessly across the cobbles.

They reached the line, and J.J. shoved him at Isabella.

“Hold him,” J.J. ordered, “ _Don’t let him out of your sight this time_ ,”

Isabella gave a curt nod and did as she was told; wrapping the dancer in a loose rear choke-hold.

She didn’t squeeze; letting the threat alone pin him in place.

J.J. turned back to the Beast, casting one last sorrowful glance at the dancer, “It didn’t have to be this way, Yuuri . . . I would have given you _everything_ ”.

The hunter stormed over to the town guards, snatching up a musket of his own.

“NO!” Yuuri wailed, “NO, J.J.! STOP! PLEASE! YOU CAN’T –”

Isabella’s hold tightened ever-so-slightly; not enough to hurt, but enough to get his attention.

A warm breath ghosted across his ear; “Shh,” she whispered, “ _wait_ ,”

“For what?” Yuuri hissed back.

“I don’t know yet,” she murmured, “shut up and let me think,”

Another roar of pain drew their attention back to the Beast.

Viktor was trying to break through the line to reach Yuuri and had gotten a bayonet to the snout for his trouble. A little red stain welled up on his muzzle.

Yuuri whimpered.

“There . . . _now_ we can kill it!” J.J. declared triumphantly, taking his place back in line, with the Lord Maire to his left, and Isabella to his right.

“ _HOLD ON_! Everybody just _calm down_!” Captain Nishigori hollered, “Now that the situation is under control, there’s no need to –”

“BLAST YOU TO THE DEPTHS, COWARD!” Lord Maire Marchand cried, “HE WHO HESITATES IS LOST! ABANDON ALL HOPE IF YE ABANDON COURAGE! RIGHT, ALAIN?”

J.J. gave a curt nod, “Yes, Sir!”

“But Sir,” Nishigori objected, “What about Minako?”

All eyes turned to the courtesan-turned-tutor, still dizzy on her feet. She leaned heavily on one of the beautifully-set tables, swaying slightly with the breeze. Her other hand was plastered over one eye, as if she’d hit it during the fall.

“What _about_ her?” J.J. sneered, “She’s _clearly_ in league with the Beast!”

“Wait, how can you be sure?” Theo Miller squeaked, clumsily brandishing a pitchfork as Paulette Baker watched the scene unfold from behind him.

“Oh, Please!” J.J. crowed, “It’s no secret that the tutor _hates_ this town . . . you’re saying it’s just a _coincidence_ that she ‘mysteriously’ vanished, only return on the _exact same day_ a _beast_ showed up to _kidnap my beloved_?”

Cries of indignant rage swelled through the mob.

“Yea!” Stephan bellowed, “J.J.’s right! We all know what th’ tutor’s like! I bet she’s got _all kinds_ of evil hocus-pocus!”

“I _knew_ there was something wrong with her!” Mr. Baker cried.

“She summoned a monster to destroy the Village!” Loius Dubois agreed.

“I say we shoot her too!” Damien cried, snatching up a musket.

His suggestion was greeted by cheers.

“How muchyouwanna bet tha’ The Tinkerss in on it too?” Stephan crowed, “Get ‘im out of 'is cell and shoot ‘em both! Shoot ‘em all!”

“Oh, _stop it_ , all of you!” Minako scolded, still holding her head, “If you'll just _listen_ –”

“Listen to _what_?” Stephan goaded, “How your little pet was supposed to rip us apart?”

“Yea!” Damien spat, “Scoop us up n' take us back to its lair, like Yuuri?”

The Villagers took up the cry.

“Yea! Furry brute!”

“What’s it do, peel people’s skin off?”

“Suck the marrow out their bones?”

“Eat ‘em alive? Tear ‘em to shreds with those –”

“No!” Minako wailed, “Please! He’s wouldn’t hurt a fly! J.J.’s the _real_ kidnapper – I’ve been held prisoner in his cellar for –”

“Oh, listen to ‘er!” Louis shouted, “She’s as bad as the Tinker, blamin’ J.J. like that –”

“Lies! Slander and Lies!” J.J. hollered.

“Yea!” Stephan shouted, “We caught the Beast red-handed!”

“Clawed!” Damien corrected.

“Right!” Stephan agreed, “Red- _clawed_!”

Minako started to panic, “ _Listen to me_! He _wasn’t_ hurting Yuuri, I swear! He was –”

J.J. sneered, “How can we trust the words of a woman who sides with a _monster_?”

“Yea!”

“Shoot her!”

“No! Take her alive so we can hang her!”

“Tie her up!”

“Put ‘er in jail!”

“SHOOT HER! SHOOT HER!”

“ _QUIET_!!!”

Captain Nishigori burst through the line.

“ _STAND DOWN”_ he roared with all the might of an angry papa bear.

For one brief, fleeting moment, the calamity calmed.

“We have yet to verify _any_ of these accusations!” Nishigori announced, “And considering that no man here has been hurt, I’m issuing an official edict that _no one_ is to lay a _finger_ on Okukawa Minako, until we discover the truth of these events. Without the proper evidence to convict –”

“ _Evidence_?” J.J. demanded, “Do you even _hear_ yourself Nishigori? What more _evidence_ do you need? Are you just going to sit here and wait until her Beast actually _murders_ someone before you do anything about it, _Captain_?” he spit the rank like a curse.

Cries of assent flooded the marketplace.

“WELL SAID, ALAIN! WELL SAID!” Lord Maire Marchand praised, “FIRST WAVE READY –!”

“NO!” Nishigori thundered, “THIS IS NOT THE WAY WE SERVE JUSTICE IN _MY TOWN_!”

“NO LIP FROM YOU, NISHIGORI!” the Lord Maire sputtered, “I’M COMMANDER OF THIS REGIMENT, AND –”

“WITH ALL DUE RESPECT SIR, THIS _ISN’T_ YOUR BRIGADE!”

Marchand sputtered like an angry tea kettle; red-faced and furious.

J.J. looked to Stephan with a scowl, “ _Grab her_ ,” he ordered, “ _I want to kill that BEAST_ ”

With an exasperated sigh, Stephan lumbered forward; bayonets parted like the tide to let him pass. He grabbed Minako by the wrist and easily dragged her back to the crowd. Unlike Isabella, he did not even pretend to hold her securely; merely wrapping his arms around her from behind, like the world’s most uncomfortable bear-hug, or like a particularly sturdy stool for his drunken self to slump against.

“There! Are you satisfied now _PEASANT_?” The Lord Maire broke into a coughing fit, and hocked a huge loogie at Nishigori’s feet, “She’ll have her trial, and we’ll have our answers . . . but first, PUT THE BRUTE DOWN!”

The villagers cheered again; another guard jabbed Viktor with his bayonet.

The Beast’s roar rumbled the cobblestones.

“Viktor! No!” Yuuri yelped.

He suddenly felt a squeeze to his collarbone.

“Stephan’s _drunk_ ,” Isabella whispered urgently.

“ _So_?”

“ _No balance_ ” she hissed.

Yuuri’s mind raced; _what the hell was that supposed to mean_?

“FIRST WAVE READY! GUNS ON HIM MEN!”

Yuuri’s heart pounded.

He – he had to do something.

He had to stop this.

He –

He gazed helplessly into the Marketplace, trying to meet his Prince’s eyes.

Viktor was hemmed in; pinned down by bayonets on all sides, with a dozen firearms locked on his every movement. Blood matted the fur on his shoulder, on his side, on his muzzle, and still he swatted at the infantry, trying to free himself enough to reach Yuuri.

A lump formed in his throat; Yuuri could hardly stand it.

This was all his fault.

His eyes began to fill with tears.

Lord Maire Marchand turned to J.J. with a triumphant grin, “Alain! Alain m’boy!” he called, “I believe _you_ should do the honors!”

J.J. smirked, “Of course, Lord Maire Marchand,” he purred, “It would be my _pleasure_ –”

A tight tug on his hair made Yuuri wince.

“Ahh!” he hissed, “What the hell was that fo–?”

“I have a plan,”

Yuuri’s eyes went wide.

He held his breath.

Was it possible that Isabella Yang might hold his salvation after all?

J.J. inspected his musket, taking a wide stance. The hunter was barely a foot away from them.

Viktor yowled again as the bayonets prodded him into position, directly in front of J.J.; a single-man firing-squad.

“On my signal” Isabella instructed between heartbeats, “get Minako. Run. Don’t stop,”

“What signal?” Yuuri murmured breathlessly, “What about Vik –”

Isabella yanked on his hair again.

“ _Run_. _Don’t stop_ ,”

Yuuri swallowed hard and nodded.

Isabella’s hold loosened.

Her arms went slack.

J.J. took aim; the musket pointing directly at Viktor's heart.

The Prince snarled.

The assembly fell silent.

J.J. took a deep breath, his finger on the trigger – 

Then, the world erupted into chaos.

A sharp shove from behind sent Yuuri stumbling forward; free from Isabella’s grasp.

The huntress pivoted a hundred and eighty degrees; now nearly toe-to-toe with J.J., she cupped the barrel of his musket, forcing the muzzle up and the butt down.

A shot rang out.

Viktor roared.

The mob screamed; shock, anger and fear coalescing in a treacherous cacophony.

“ _ISABELLA_?”

“ _What the hell is she_ –?”

“STOP HER! STOP HER! BETRAYAL IN THE RANKS!”

Yuuri caught his balance; Viktor was still standing, still alive, still –

“ _Yuuri_! _Go_!”

Isabella barked his name as she swiftly disarmed J.J.; slamming the butt of the musket into the hunter’s nose for good measure.

J.J. stumbled back with a yelp of surprise, nearly losing his balance; in an instant, the rest of the hunting party was on her.

Except for Stephan . . . who was _drunk_.

Yuuri charged though the sea of villagers, ramming into Stephan as hard as he could. The meathead stumbled only a bit, but lost his balance enough for Minako to pull free.

“Run!” Yuuri shouted, “Don’t stop!”

Minako grabbed him by the wrist, dragging him through the panicked crowd; like two salmon swimming upstream.

No one paid them any notice, as all eyes were on the rogue huntress, who was successfully fending off her opponents with a single empty musket; brandishing it by the muzzle, as if it were a club, and creating the most horrendous disturbance the town had ever seen.

“Yuuri! _YUURI_!”

The dancer heard his Prince’s call, “VIKTOR! OVER HERE!” he screamed.

He tried to stop, to wait at the edge of the crowd, but Minako refused to release his wrist.

“DON’T STOP,” she reminded.

They made it to the Village Limit, pausing only briefly on the Main Road as a thunderous roar shook the earth.

Yuuri’s eyes snapped back to his Prince; Minako continued to drag him up the hill.

“ _Viktor_! _VIKTOR_!”

Yuuri’s eyes filled with tears; another snarl shattered the sunset.

The Beast was pushing his way through the crowd now; using his bark, but not his bite, to overcome the musketeers.

A quick swish of his tail knocked half a dozen guards flat on their asses; ruffled but unharmed. Another swish sent the nearest table toppling; glassware and cutlery causing a calamitous clatter.

Viktor took advantage of the momentary distraction to lower himself to all fours; coiling low to the cobblestones before leaping clear across the crowd.

For a moment, the entire village was stunned silent.

Viktor tore up the hill to meet Yuuri and Minako; pausing only seconds to usher them onto his back.

He bled from a deep gash in his left bicep, where J.J.'s shot had landed.

“FOLLOW! FOLLOW I SAY! AFTER THEM, YOU NINNIES!”

The Lord Maire’s cries echoed over the rolling hills.

“H-hold on . . .” Viktor panted.

Yuuri dug his hands into the thick fur of Viktor’s scruff, gripping as tightly as he could. Minako had her arms wrapped around Yuuri’s waist, her dizzy head pressed into the crook of his shoulder.

In seconds they were gone; disappearing into the forest as a volley of musket shots rang out behind them.

The world throbbed around them, in tune with their racing heartbeats; a blur of midnight blue foliage was all Yuuri could see beyond his watering eyes.

They had made it.

They were together.

They were safe.

They were free.

But for how long?

And at what cost?

 

*****

 

“Well, well, well,” Lord Maire Marchand wheezed, “looks like you have a traitor in your midst, Leroy,”

Isabella huffed and shook her sweaty hair out of her eyes.

She was being held by two guards, one pinning each arm, as the entire Village looked on; damning her in the wake of J.J.’s thwarted wedding.

The sun was all but gone; the torchlight casting her former friends in menacing red profiles.

It was worth it, though, she reminded herself; it was worth it to do the right thing –

“In my day, we _executed_ traitors,” Marchand blinked at her like a furious owl.

“I . . . I don’t understand,” Marcel murmured, broken-hearted and shaken to the bone, “Isabella . . . _why_?"

Damien and Stephan both sneered; jubilant at her downfall.

“Yea,” J.J. agreed coldly, his voice snapping through the silence, “I think we’d _all_ like to know _why_ ,”

Blood still dripped from his nose; pooling on the emerald green jacket.

And the look he gave her then was so frigid, so cruel and distant and heartless, that Isabella hardly recognised his face.

She swallowed hard and looked him right in the eye; willing her voice not to shake.

“ _Trust_ me, J.J.,” she answered, “ _someday you’ll thank me for this_ ,”

The silence was palpable.

J.J. scowled, “ _get her out of my sight_ ,” he hissed.

“NISHIGORI! TAKE THE TRAITOR AWAY AT ONCE!” The Lord Marie ordered, “WE’LL HAVE HER HEAD FOR THIS!”

“But _first_ –,” J.J. proclaimed, “ _WHO WANTS TO HELP ME KILL A BEAST_?”

Bloodthirsty cheers rose up from the crowd as Nishigori led Isabella away.

She hung her head in mourning; a single tear slid down her cheek.

Not for herself . . . not for Yuuri or The Beast . . . but for Jean Jacques Leroy.

The man she loved was well and truly dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [French] ç'est magnifique = Quite magnificent/How Magnificent 
> 
> [Japanese] Okāsan = お母さん= Mom
> 
> [Japanese] Otōsan = お父さん= Dad
> 
> [Japanese] Ojīsan = お祖父さん= Grandfather
> 
> [Thai] Mæ̀ = แม่ = Mom
> 
> [Thai] Ph̀x = พ่อ = Dad
> 
> [Russian] Lyubov Moya = любовь моя = My Love
> 
> [Russian] Solnyshko = Солнышко = My Sunshine/Little Sun (Term of Endearment)


	14. Interlude: Minako's Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minako's Memories: Everything ever forgotten about an unforgettable life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Presenting: the aforementioned "Interlude"
> 
> MINAKO'S MEMORIES - flashbacks from when Minako first met Viktor, and select scenes from her life before the spell. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all your love and support throughout this fic!
> 
> For more, check out my tumblr, [silverscribblesuniverse](https://silverscribblesuniverse.tumblr.com/) and my [other fics on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Scribbles/works)!
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS:
> 
> Language, Mentions of Death (No Named Characters).

**_24 Years Ago . . ._ **

 

Minako gazed around the massive ballroom in awe; this wasn’t what she’d expected at all.

The pastoral seaside landscape which she had perused on her journey here had given her the impression that life was going to be decidedly more _provincial_ from this point onwards; the quiet hills of swaying heather seeming terribly quaint after the loud noises and bright lights of The City.

But this Castle, this _ballroom_ was absolutely _breathtaking_ ; a never ending canvas just waiting to be brought to life. It very nearly made her shake in her pointe shoes.

“Lilia . . . are you certain about this?” Minako asked tentatively, taking a quick break from stretching to face her one-time coach and choreographer.

Lilia looked down on her with severe green eyes, “there are _better_ options for a retired prima?” she demanded.

“The _opposite_ ,” Minako returned pointedly, extending her left leg, “I don’t know if I’m fit to train _royalty_ ,”

“Don’t be foolish,” Lilia snapped, “if you think it is so, you make it so. Besides, you are nobility in your own right,”

Minako snorted, “Only a countess, if my father deigns to grant me even that much . . .”

“Mmm,” Lilia frowned, turning back to the stack of sheet music on her lap; firmly ignoring the prima-turned-tutor.

Minako sighed dramatically, “ _you_ know . . .” she drawled, “considering I’ve been _disowned_ and all . . .”

“So I recall,” Lilia replied tersely.

She’d heard it all a thousand times before.

Minako delighted in Lilia’s exasperation.

“I mean,” Minako pouted, “The way he acts, you’d think I ran away to join the _circus_ rather than the _ballet_ . . .”

Lila looked up with a roll of her eyes; Minako never tired of wheedling the humorless dance-master, and they both knew it.

“Your father is nothing,” the choreographer opined, for what must have been the millionth time, “Forget who you were. Your past self is dead, understand? The only people who succeed are those who are willing to be reborn as many times as necessary!”

She raised a brow at the frivolous prima.

Her whimsy placated, Minako snorted and flashed Lilia a wicked little grin. Then she turned away, relaxing into her stretch and finally granting Lilia some well deserved peace and quiet.

Lilia Baranoskya was known the world over for her brilliance; ex-prima, choreographer, coach, career-maker. The theatre world fell to their collective knees in worship of her brilliance; and though Lilia was indeed as strict and severe as rumor led one to believe, Minako counted herself extremely lucky to have landed in the dance-master’s good graces.

For, despite her thousands of fans and hundreds of pupils, very few people had the privilege to learn that Lilia Baranoskya was not only an artistic genius . . . but a surprisingly good friend as well.

She was the one who’d recommended Minako for this coaching job, after all.

A tragic fall had all-but-ended Minako’s own career more than half a year prior; her promising future cut short by the cruel strands of fate . . . and one deceptively icy sidewalk.

Despite the fact that she’d tended her shattered ankle as carefully as a newborn, and poured months of work into re-habilitating the limb, it soon became apparent that Minako would never dance again.

Not as a Prima in the City Ballet, at least.

She was still one of the most talented and beloved dancers in the country, however; and though Minako was loathed to admit it, her retirement had been _somewhat_ inevitable – even pre-injury – thanks to the dozens of hungry young stars rising in her own company.

But, miracle of miracles, just a few short weeks ago, Lilia had come to her with this new opportunity. The dance-master insisted she'd offered Minako the position on merit alone, but the ex-prima secretly suspected that Lilia just wanted to stop receiving her increasingly frequent and over-dramatic letters.

“So . . . what’s he like?” Minako prodded, now working her right leg, “The Crown Prince, I mean?”

Lilia waved the question off, “You will meet him soon,”

“But . . . why ballet?”

“Why does anyone do anything in this world?”

Minako rolled her eyes; apparently, she had reached the limits of Lilia’s patience at last.

-//-

Minako’s first impression of Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov was . . . _unfavorable_ to say the least.

If pressed, Minako _might_ have admitted that _perhaps_ she’d entered into this arrangement with a few _teeny tiny_ preconceptions of what a Prince should be like. And while she’d _mostly_ outgrown her childhood fantasies of charming royals whisking her off into the night – meeting _Viktor Nikiforov_ was enough to sour her to the idea of royal affairs altogether.

No; clearly ‘dashing rogue’ was the way to go.

The first time she laid eyes on the Crown Prince, it almost felt like magic.

He was _gorgeous_ ; young and pale, with alabaster skin and delicate features. Though he was several years her junior, he towered above her; slender and well-built, filling out his suit exquisitely. His hair was expertly coiffed, silky platinum tresses sweeping casually in front of his face.

And his _eyes_ –

 _Beautiful, breathtaking blue eyes_ – like glaciers, like sea glass, like a bright summer sky – glittering like crystals and teasing her with secrets. They were the type of eyes a poet would praise; so deep and so blue that the ocean itself would look upon them and weep with envy.

He’d regally swept into the ballroom and graciously introduced himself with a kiss to her hand; poised and proud and perfect, like some sort of romantic hero.

But, to Minako’s horror, she was soon to learn that his _personality_ left _much_ to be desired.

Minako had always been a dancer; preferring to express her artistry through movement, but, if asked to describe Prince Nikiforov with words alone, she might have said that he was much like a burnt piece of toast; only, twice as dry and half as warm.

He wasn’t _unkind_ , per se; there was just something about him – something aloof and off-putting and _fake_ – that made Minako dread his presence.

His manner was so different than the dancers in her old company, who were all cheer and affection and gossip; different even from the most severe of nobility Minako had been presented to as a child. He was like a man made of winter; beautiful to behold, but harsh and unyielding and abrasive to the touch.

The Prince was well versed in dance at least; and although he wasn’t particularly inviting, Minako did enjoy partnering him. With that small glimmer of hope, she resolved to do everything she could to bring out the best in him; both in his dancing, and in his personal relations.

Her determination had lasted for all of half a day; Viktor’s rigid etiquette and frigid detachment wearing Minako’s enthusiasm down to nothing in a matter of hours.

She _tried_ to get along with him – _really, she did_ – but, much to Lilia’s chagrin, Viktor and Minako went together about as well as oil and water. In fact, the Prince was so cold and fastidious and inflexible that Minako couldn’t even fathom how dance had managed to catch his fancy in the first place.

As the weeks passed, she began to feel as though her presence was not only unnecessary, but altogether unwelcome.

Despite her struggles, Minako managed to keep her chin up and smile. She made other friends – ladies in waiting and kitchen staff alike – explored the beautiful castle, and slowly settled in to her semi-satisfactory new life; seeing The Prince only in practice, and otherwise avoiding him at all costs.

 

**_23 Years & 6 Months Ago . . ._ **

 

“Five minutes!” Lilia hollered, “Then back to it!”

Minako nodded; moving off the floor to refresh herself . . . and to escape from _his Imperial Highness_.

She had come here to help Lilia train him, to be his dance partner and secondary coach; to impart her first-hand knowledge of the theatre, improve his technique and deepen his love of dance. But the Crown Prince was already surprisingly knowledgeable - not to mention adept - and Minako had no idea how to teach him, or even how to reach him.

Not for the first time since her arrival almost half a year ago, she wondered what she was even doing here.

“Lady Okukawa, a word?”

Minako stopped dead in her tracks, then turned around slowly into a deep curtsey, “Of course, your Imperial Highness,” she returned evenly, icicles running along her spine, “it would be my pleasure,”

The Prince said very little, but always spoke volumes with his eyes; his bright, unsettling blue eyes.

Reluctantly, Minako followed him further off to the side, where they could speak more privately.

Viktor’s posture was stiff and straight; “I find myself at odds with our current choreography, and I hoped I might glean further insight from you,” he said sharply, cutting right to the heart of the matter.

Minako hesitated a moment, caught off guard; it was the most he’d ever said to her in a single breath.

“Your form is flawless, from what I can see, My Prince,” Minako replied, politely averting her eyes.

The Prince sighed in frustration; the first hint of real emotion Minako had ever seen from him, “Your courtesy is appreciated, Lady Okukawa, but if I could beg your candor? I _know_ something is flawed in my execution,”

Something like desperation lurked beneath his poise; the Prince’s unease slowly spread to Minako.

“Truly your highness!” She objected, as politely as she could, “there is no fault in your technique . . .”

Minako trailed off, struggling to find the words.

“However?” The Prince prompted patiently.

“However . . .” Minako continued tentatively, “speaking _candidly_ , at your behest . . . your Imperial Highness could perhaps benefit from a . . . _softer_ approach?”

Prince Nikiforov’s brow furrowed in contemplation and Minako held her breath.

After a moment, he spoke. “Elaborate,” he invited.

“It’s true that your form is excellent, My Prince,” Minako assured him, choosing her words very, _very_ carefully, “and now that you have achieved _technical_ perfection for this routine, you may find you can add further depth to your performance by enhancing your . . . _expressiveness_ . . ?”

Minako braced herself; mercy, she’d just talked herself right out of a job, hadn’t she?

The Prince pondered a moment, “You’re suggesting my difficulties with the piece stem from a lack of emotional investment, rather than a deficit of skill?”

His tone was so flat, Minako had no idea whether she’d insulted him or not.

She didn’t have time to find out, however, as at that very moment, Lilia called for practice to resume.

-//-

The rest of rehearsal went about as smoothly as could be expected. For the first time ever, Minako hoped they would run long; if only to delay the inevitable.

After practice, once they had both cooled down, The Prince pulled her aside once again.

“I attempted to do as you instructed, but I believe I fell short of my goal,” He blurted unceremoniously, “I thought I had touched on it during the last half of our second run through. It felt better. Did you notice any improvement?”

Minako blinked, pleasantly surprised by his bluntness.

Noting her expression, the Crown Prince quickly schooled his features, “Apologies, Lady Okukawa. I only meant . . . if it is of no inconvenience, I would be interested in hearing your reflections on today’s practice,”

Minako smiled before she could stop herself.

They lost track of time, enthusiastically exchanging notes in the sanctuary of the cavernous ballroom.

After some time, Viktor’s schedule finally demanded that they part; and to Minako’s great surprise, she found herself disappointed.

“Lady Okukawa,” The Prince ventured, as they began to bid their farewells, “It occurs to me that I haven’t properly thanked you. For agreeing to take this position, I mean. Your contributions have been invaluable to my studies,”

Minako nearly blushed, “I am glad to hear it, Your Highness,” she replied. She opened her mouth to continue, but suddenly thought better of it and looked away.

“Something troubles you,” Viktor stated.

“No, My Prince . . .” Minako replied honestly, “However, I have been curious about something,”

“Ask,” Viktor invited, his face strategically blank.

Minako took a deep breath, “I was wondering why you chose to hire an additional instructor? Lilia is a genius, and surely a much better coach than I,”

The Prince’s chin tilted ever so slightly, like a confused puppy, “Did she not tell you when you received your letter of appointment?”

Mianako’s blank expression told him everything.

“Ah,” Viktor swallowed hard; nervous for the first time on his life, Minako was certain. “W-well,” he continued awkwardly, “When news of your retirement reached me, I wasted no time asking Lilia to contact you with my offer . . . I’ve been following your career with enthusiasm for some time now, you see . . .”

Minako’s eyes went wide.

No way.

NO FREAKING WAY.

Prince Nikiforov . . . was a _fan_?

“I first saw you as ‘Marcella’ in ‘La Grande Beauté Du Sud’, and My Ladyship, I must say, you were exquisite!” The Prince rambled on; his praise bursting forth like a raging waterfall.

Minako grinned; oh, this was _too_ good.

Viktor hadn’t wanted just any coach; he’d wanted to learn from his _idol_.

In truth, perhaps Minako should have found it unsettling; but Viktor’s praise was so honest and so ardent, she couldn’t bring herself to quash it. This was the first time she’d ever seen anything likening sincerity from the taciturn royal, and she was pleasantly surprised to discover that over the course of their conversation, she may have actually started to _like_ him.

“I . . . I thought . . .” Viktor hedged, “with your talent and your experience, you might be able to identify where I was . . . lacking?”

And the look on his face then was so soft and so vulnerable, Minako nearly scooped him into her arms and cuddled him like a kitten.

They parted friends not long after; and Minako had never been so grateful that first impressions could often be so wrong.

 

**_23 Years Ago . . ._ **

 

Minako stifled a gasp as her eyes swept the ballroom.

The gilded hall was impressive, even under normal circumstances; but tonight, it was truly a sight to behold.

A breathtaking blend of swirling gowns and delectable aromas had transformed Minako’s extravagant new workspace into sea of glittering gold; lords and ladies laughing and dancing and drinking and flooding the dazzling arena below.

Minako grinned and squeezed Viktor’s arm as they descended the grand staircase.

She had attended soirees like this before, in her younger years, of course; but never anything this opulent, and never on the arm of a Prince.

Viktor glanced down at her, briefly alarmed by the unexpected vice – but soon relaxed, noting her excitement as the cause.

He escorted her not as a suitor, of course, but as a close personal companion. By now, Minako was more than aware of the Prince’s romantic inclinations; and, even were that not the case, their relationship had already bloomed into something rare and beautiful all its own – a friendship that they’d both begun to treasure above all others.

And besides, after more than a year of working together, it was _impossible_ for Minako to think of the Prince as anything more than a friend.

Sure, Viktor might be _handsome_ , he might be _royalty_ . . . but he was still just _Viktor_.

Frigid, fastidious, fan-boy Viktor.

Of course, being escorted by him didn’t make the evening any less magical.

If possible, the ball was even _more_ entertaining this way; being in the thick of it, without the pressures of an _actual_ courtship to distract her.

Although . . . if some ‘ _dashing rouge_ ’ were to show up and sweep her off her feet . . .  well, then The Prince was on his own.

But even so, Minako couldn’t help but smile when Viktor asked her for a dance.

-//-

The first part of the evening flew by in a blur of music and mirth; until Viktor was finally forced to abandon the dance floor.

“Don’t you want to mingle?” Minako encouraged, straightening his lapel, “isn’t that the whole point?”

Viktor raised an eyebrow in vexation.

“I mean –” Minako corrected, “Isn’t that the whole point, _My Prince_?”

Viktor closed his eyes; to prevent himself from rolling them, Minako guessed.

It was a bad habit of Viktor’s; and one which was _very_ ‘unbecoming’ of a Crown Prince.

Or so he claimed.

Viktor sighed, “very well,” he conceded. The Prince offered Minako his arm to lead them from the floor, “let us _‘mingle’_ ,” he invited with a smile.

Minako smiled back; but something felt . . . off.

Perhaps it was just that Viktor smiled so little, Minako was unaccustomed to seeing it.

Or perhaps it was just the smile itself; how it didn’t quite reach his eyes, despite his air of grace.

Minako had little time left to wonder, as they were soon swept into conversation with the rotund King of The Middle Hills, and his _very_ handsome son, Prince Hamelin.

-//-

The night dragged ever onward as Minako and the Prince meandered through the ballroom; welcoming guests, paying compliments and making small-talk.

Throughout their various encounters, Viktor remained regal and poised; as charismatic and congenial as Minako had ever seen him.

In fact, The Prince was practically charm incarnate.

And he was _smiling_.

And he was _laughing_.

Minako frowned.

This wasn’t Viktor.

Not _her_ Viktor, anyway.

Something was wrong, here; very, _very_ wrong.

Minako resolved to find out what.

Now, they were graciously disengaging from an ages-long conversation with the ancient Queen of The Southern Isles, who had spent the entire dialog attempting to foist Viktor off on her _very_ buxom niece.

The Prince steered Minako toward the refreshments without a word; snatching up a glass of champagne and downing it, in what she assumed was a very ‘un-princely’ fashion.

He caught himself, suddenly remembering to hand Minako a flute of her own; recalling at least some _small_ modicum of etiquette.

As Minako sipped, she scrutinized the Prince; his posture, his smile, his stance, his –

Viktor raised an eyebrow, ever-so-slightly, “is there something you find fascinating about my countenance, Lady Okukawa?”

“No!” Minako squeaked, looking away sharply; pretending like she’d been seeking a place to deposit her glass.

Viktor sighed, “Lady Okukawa, by now we are familiar enough that I can discern when there is something troubling you. I desire you to tell me, so I may put your mind at ease,”

“My Prince . . .” Minako trailed off, not knowing how to put her doubts into words, when they were surrounded by so many people.

She needed somewhere quiet, somewhere secluded, somewhere secret . . . somewhere she wouldn’t accidentally embarrass him.

The next second, she was tugging the Prince out onto the deserted veranda.

The great glass doors stood open; music and light bleeding out into the night.

It wasn’t technically ‘privacy’ . . . but it was close enough.

“Is everything alright?” Minako blurted, before they could be interrupted.

Both of Viktor’s slender eyebrows popped up in shock, “I beg your pardon?”

Minako blushed, “I-I mean – apologies My Prince,” she stammered, “Only . . . you seem . . . upset?”

Viktor brushed off the haphazard guess, casting her another fake smile, “Of course not, Lady Okukawa,” he assured her, his voice dripping with rich honey and sugar, “I’m having a _marvellous_ time,”

For a split-second, Minako almost believed him.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, “. . . tonight’s Ball is your Royal Debut, is it not?”

Viktor still smiled, but Minako was certain she saw it waver.

“It is . . .” he confirmed; uncertain what she was playing at.

“Then, with all due respect, your Highness,” she replied, “why haven’t you left my side _once_ all evening? Not that I’m complaining! It just seems odd that you would ask to escort _me_ tonight, when, as far as I can tell, you’re meant to be seeking an . . . ‘arrangement’? Unless I'm meant to be a ‘chaperone’, or some such? I mean, you’ve barely even _spoken_ to your suitors, let alone ‘ _favored_ ’ any of them. Not even Prince Hamelin! And he’s _gorgeous_! It just seems –”

 “I –” Viktor began, searching for the words, “I . . . ah . . . asked you . . . because you are the best dancer in the country, obviously . . .” he finished awkwardly; his smile stretched impossibly wide.

After a moment, epiphany struck and Minako’s eyes scrunched with sympathy, “. . . you’re miserable,” she murmured, “You don’t want to be here . . .”

Viktor straightened up and cleared his throat, “don’t be ridiculous, Lady Okukawa. Of course I do,” he lied, aiming for imperious and failing miserably.

“Mmm hmm?” Minako hummed, crossing her arms and raising an accusatory brow.

Viktor deflated under the scrutiny, “It was my father’s idea,” he explained, finally dropping both the smile and the act.

He drifted over to the balcony, leaning forward on the rail. Minako joined him.

“Ahh . . . daddy issues,” she quipped, “I know them well . . .”

“I’m aware,” Viktor smirked; the first genuine smile she’d seen all night, sarcastic as it was.

They stood there in silence a moment; the tranquility of night keeping the rest of the world at bay.

Minako gazed at The Prince, patiently waiting for him to continue. She knew how temperamental Viktor could be; it would do no good to push him.

At last, he surrendered with a sigh.

“Somehow, my father has gotten it into his head that I’m ‘ _lonesome_ ’ all the way out here,” Viktor scoffed, “As if I’m too ‘delicate’ to face the realities of my station,”

Minako tilted her head, ever-so-slightly, silently inviting him to elaborate.

“I know his true concerns. He can address them outright; I’m not made of glass” Viktor huffed, by way of explanation, “What he _means_ to say, is that he’s displeased I’ve chosen to remain here at Nikiforov Manor, far away from The Capitol where he cannot supervise me. And he is further displeased by the fact that I’ve not taken it upon myself to find an advantageous match . . . nor yet consented to any unions of _his_ choosing,”

Minako hummed sympathetically, looking out over the silent gardens. She knew all too well the constraints nobility; she’d cast her own title aside for just such reasons, after all.

But . . . but just because _her_ father was a petty, sycophantic autocrat, didn’t mean that _all_ fathers were . . . right?

“I know this might sound strange, coming from _me_ of all people . . .” she ventured, “but . . .  do you think it’s even a _tiny_ bit possible that your father is _genuinely_ concerned about your welfare? Even you have to admit, you’re a fairly ‘private’ person, My Prince. Politics aside . . . perhaps he worries that you’re isolating yourself?”

“Even so,” Viktor muttered, “He needn’t speak to me like I’m a child,”

“Well –” Minako stopped abruptly; catching herself milliseconds before saying something monumentally stupid.

But, of course, Viktor noticed; Viktor _always_ noticed.

“ _Well_?” He prompted, after a moment of silence.

Minako sighed.

 _Busted_.

“Apologies, My Prince,” She murmured, “I would never suggest that you’re ‘ _a_ child’ . . . but, perhaps consider that you are ‘ _his_ child’?”

Viktor opened his mouth to retort, then abruptly shut it again with an adorable little pout.

Minako gave him a knowing smile.

“If – if you’re not ready to be courted . . . if you _really_ don’t want this . . .” she hedged, “isn’t there some way you could _negotiate_ with him? Perhaps delay it a while? I understand that you have a duty to your country, My Prince . . . but he’s your _father_ ; surely he still takes your feelings into account? At least a little?”

Viktor frowned, “. . . Any other father might. The King does not,”

Minako mirrored his expression, “Ah . . . It seems nobility are the same, from counts to kings, then,” she muttered, “I – I’m sorry, My Prince,”

“It makes no difference,” Viktor proclaimed, standing up straight and dusting himself off, “I accepted the circumstances of my birth long ago. I suppose my ‘ _feelings_ ’ are a fair enough price to pay for . . . all of this,”

He gestured vaguely to the ethereal grounds and glittering palace of gold.

Minako drifted over to the Prince, “You could always run away and join the ballet,” she teased, linking her arm with his.

Viktor groaned.

“I mean, you could always run away and join the ballet, _My Prince_!” Minako corrected with a mischievous grin.

Viktor rolled his eyes, though she was certain she caught a smile there too.

Together, they returned to the shimmering ballroom.

All around them, idle conversation swelled; the royal ball now a soulless quagmire of duty, rather than a stunning sea of celebration.

Minako stood tall and braced herself, as if for battle; _somehow_ she would find a way to help Viktor through this.

Moments later, she found their salvation in the twang of a harpsichord.

“Perhaps the evening is still salvageable yet, your Highness,” Minako proposed, glancing up at the Prince through her lashes.

Viktor looked down, incredulous. “Meaning?” he queried.

Minako smiled, “I believe this song is one of your favourites, is it not?”

Viktor took a moment to listen, relaxing ever-so-slightly.

“I believe you’re right, Lady Minako . . . would you do me the honor?”

Hand in hand, they drifted on to the dance floor; escaping the demands of birth as the music carried them away.

 

**_22 Years & 9 Months Ago . . . _ **

“YOU DID _WHAT_?”

“Kindly lower your voice, Lady Minako”.

Minako scrunched up her nose. She sat on Viktor’s desk and leaned in close; mere inches from his face, surrounded by the rich opulence of his private parlor.

“You did _what_?” she hissed; following the letter, but not the _spirit_ of his order.

Viktor snarled, pushing himself back from his desk and the letter he was writing. He flung his silver fountain pen down in frustration; which bounced off the parchment and promptly rolled away.

“As I told you before, Lady Minako, I requested that Prince Hamelin and his entourage vacate my castle by sundown,” Viktor snapped. He reached for the pen to resume his letter, only to realize it had disappeared.

He let out a growl.

“So . . . we’re ‘Angry Viktor’ today?” Minako teased.

The Prince just glared at her; his arctic eyes flashing with warning.

Anyone else would have lost their job for such insolence . . . but Minako was special.

Minako had always been special.

But - in her defense - she wasn’t provoking him for the fun of it; well, not _just_   for the fun of it.

Honestly, what else was she supposed to do? Just let him carry on all frigid and apathetic like he was? That couldn’t possibly be healthy! It was practically her _job_ to wheedle him out of his shell! Besides, Viktor was an even easier mark than _Lilia_ ; which frankly should have been impossible, but instead was endlessly entertaining.

And more importantly . . . Minako hated seeing her friend so miserable all the time; especially knowing how joyful a person he truly was.

Despite his faults, Viktor was, without question, an exceptional ruler; he was composed and strategic and he _cared_ – deep, deep down, he cared.

Sure, he could be a little stand-offish at times, and his manner _often_ gave people the wrong impression . . . but he just needed a companion; an ally. Someone who didn't demand anything of him. Someone who didn't censure him. Someone he could just be himself around. Someone he could talk to and gossip with and confide in; like a big sister.

And Minako was going to be that ' _someone'_ , even if it killed her.  
  
Which, it just might, judging by Viktor's ferocious gaze.

Minako gracefully leaned over and scooped his pen up off the floor, holding it out to him in truce.

“Tell me about it?”

With a weary sigh, Viktor snatched the pen from her hand, dunked it into the inkwell, and began to scribble away.

“Alright,” Minako surrendered, “I’m just confused is all. Weren’t you resolved to ‘accept whichever suit had the most merit’, in order to placate the King? I mean, for a while there . . . well, it seemed like you’d actually started to _enjoy_ Hamelin’s courting –”

Viktor’s hand grew still, “am I meant to enjoy the courting of an unfaithful carpetbagger in Prince’s clothing?”

His voice was tight with heartache.

He didn’t look up.

Minako’s stomach plummeted, “Oh . . . Viktor . . . I’m . . . I’m so sor–”

“Don’t be,” Viktor interrupted, not fiercely, but frigidly, “It’s better that his philandering nature came to light now, before we finalized our union. Mercy smile on whatever poor bastard he does wed. Incidentally, I’ll need to hire some new wait staff . . . and a new chef or two . . . and a new Maître D’.”

“He’s got a thing for Kitchen Boys?” Minako joked; it did not lighten the mood.

“So it would appear,” Viktor confirmed humorlessly.

They sat in silence as Viktor finished his letter; no doubt to inform his father, King Ilya, of the dissolution of his courtship.

With a steady hand, Viktor sealed the envelope with wax, pressing the crest of his ring into the oozing puddle of red.

“Daddy dearest will be most pleased, I assume?” Minako asked sympathetically.

Viktor nodded, no longer furious, but exhausted, “Most certainly. But at least there were no important _alliances_ dependent on our nuptials, or any such thing like that,”

Minako snorted, “Viktor Nikiforov, was that _sarcasm_ I just heard? How scandalous!” 

Viktor raised an eyebrow, “Certainly not. The Crown Prince of The Northern Territories does not deign to use such a lowly form of humor,”

Minako raised an eyebrow as well, mirroring her Prince, “As far as I’m aware, The Crown Prince of The Northern Territories does not deign to use _any_ form of humor,” she retorted.

Then, Viktor smiled; a small, unassuming tilt of the lips, brief and fleeting and rare.

“I really am sorry, Viktor,” Minako murmured, “you deserve better,”

Viktor cleared his throat, “these things happen. It is no loss,”

“You . . . you _liked_ him though, didn’t you?” Minako pressed, “The other day, you said –”

“It does not matter for whom I do or do not feel,” Viktor interrupted sternly, “I will find a suitable match in due time; one who does not flaunt his infidelity like a fishmonger flaunts his perch,”

“Ew. Is that some sort of innuendo?” Minako teased.

Viktor’s lips quirked up at the sides, “only if the fishmonger is an unfaithful charlatan as well,”

Minako laughed; Viktor did not. But he had smiled again, at least; however sadly.

“Would you like me to fill the fishmonger’s luggage with pickled herring, my Prince?” She offered gently, “I’m certain I could talk Masumi into parting with a barrel or two of his precious lutefisk for the cause,”

Viktor shook his head, “No. Leave him to his work. He’s agreed to take on the additional duties of Maître D’ in the interim. He’ll be very busy,”

Minako nodded, “let me know if there’s anything I can do,” she offered.

“Thank you, Lady Minako” Viktor replied kindly, “you’ve already done more than enough,”

 

**_21 Years & 6 Months Ago . . . _ **

“So . . . Chris and Masumi?”

“Don’t even start, Minako,”

“But they still have their jobs?”

“So long as I never have to hear about it again, yes,”

“Aww, what a kind, merciful Prince you are!”

“May I remind you, _Lady Okukawa_ , that Christophe was hired on _your_ recommendation?”

“What?” Minako shrugged, looking up from her latest novel, “He’s good at what he does. He was absolutely charming when we met at his other job,”

“Yes, the restaurant at that Hotel in The City,” Viktor murmured, sorting through the stray papers on his desk, “The one in which you stayed while visiting your old ballet company with Lilia. I remember,”

“Exactly! He was just so . . . suave and knowledgeable and –”

Viktor’s arctic glare met Minako’s melting sigh.

“He gave you the puppy-dog eyes, didn’t he?” The Prince demanded.

“What? No!”

Viktor’s eyes went wide with dawning realization, “You only got him hired here so you could spend more time with ‘The Handsome Maître D’ from The City’! _Traitor_!”

“Who? _Me_?” Minako stalled, “Never!”

“Mm Hmm,” Viktor’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, “I applaud you, Minako, and it would have been a marvellous plan, had Christophe not been _otherwise inclined_ ,”

Mianko pouted a moment; then gasped as her own epiphany struck, “IT WAS YOU!”

Viktor bristled, “ _I beg your pardon_?”

“I see how it is now!” Minako cried victoriously, leaping to her feet and sweeping over to the desk, “ _You’re_ the one he used the puppy-dog eyes on! _J’ACCUSE_!”

“W-what?” Viktor stuttered, “D-don’t be ridiculous!”

“ _Nobody_ could fire that sweet face!”

“How dare you! I’ve never heard such treason!”

“So? What are you going to do, _fire me_?”

“Minako –” Viktor warned, straightening his posture.

A flash of inspiration hit, and Minako pouted up at Viktor; lip quivering and eyes sparkling.

“Stop,” Viktor ordered.

Minako did not.

“Stop it, I said”.

Still she did not.

“Stop! Stop it! Stop giving me that face! It isn’t working,” Viktor huffed, turning back to his files and muttering “. . . you aren’t _nearly_ as cute as Chris” under his breath.

“I knew it!” Minako crowed victoriously, finally dropping the act.

Viktor rolled his eyes and tried to hide a smile.

“So . . .” Minako drawled, “The puppy-dog eyes . . . you think that’s how he got Masumi?” she raised her eyebrows salaciously.

Viktor sighed, “For the record . . . this whole thing is _entirely_ your fault,”

Minako smirked, “Don’t I know it. Tell them they owe me a fruit basket,”

 

**_20 Years Ago . . ._ **

 

The rain poured down in torrents, drenching the castle grounds.

Minako gazed out beyond the open entryway; the great walnut doors black with moisture.

Chris and Masumi were out in the downpour, loading her luggage into the waiting carriage. They were so sweet to do that.

Mila and Sara waited with her, staying by her side wordlessly. Sara clasped Minako’s hand in hers. Mila reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair out of Minako’s puffy red eyes.

At length, Chris and Masumi slogged back inside, their heavy wool tailcoats dripping on the white marble floor.

“You’re all packed and ready, Chéri,” Chris bade mournfully. He reached out to embrace her, but stopped short, remembering he was drenched. He took her other hand and squeezed it instead.

Masumi’s eyes were filled with sympathy, “I’ll fetch an umbrella” he offered quietly. Minako nodded as Chris cast his paramour a grateful smile; then Masumi was off.

“Where’s Prince Nikiforov?” Sara whispered to Chris, “Isn’t he going to come say goodbye?”

Minako sniffled.

“Probably hiding like a child,” the Maître D’ scoffed, “I’ll get him,”

Mila tried to smile at Minako, “Travel safe. Give love to your family from us,”

Minako nodded numbly.

At length, Masumi returned with an umbrella, and Chris returned with word that Viktor was on his way.

Minako thanked her friends, exchanging farewells and embraces until Viktor finally made an appearance.

The others peeled away slowly; leaving Minako and the Prince alone in the drafty entranceway.

For a time, they just stared at one another in awkward silence, until Viktor finally found his voice.

“My condolences,” was all he said.

Minako barely registered the words.

Viktor fumbled for something inside his jacket pocket, pulling out a long white envelope emblazoned with a royal seal.

“For your family,” he murmured.

“A stipend?” Minako huffed.

“A _gift_ ,” Viktor clarified, “You said –”

Minako shoved the envelope into her carpet bag, silencing Viktor.

“My offer is still on the table,” Viktor reminded, “I can write you a patent of nobility at any time. You don’t have to go there and endure the reading of his will,”

Anger bubbled up inside Minako; the same argument they’d had the night before was coming to light once again, “that’s not what this is about –”

“Well then, enlighten me!” Viktor snapped, “Over the years, I had gotten the impression that you held nothing but contempt for the father who disowned you, but by all means continue acting like a –”

“A what?” Minako demanded, tears streaming down her face, “a _human being_? I’m sorry we can’t _all_ turn off our emotions whenever they become inconvenient, _Your Highness_ ”

“I don’t understand,” Viktor hissed, “If you hated him so much, why are you so –?”

“I didn’t hate him!” Minako objected, “Sure I was mad at him, but I didn’t _hate_ him! I’m still mad at him! But I loved him and they . . . they didn’t even tell me he was sick!”

“Fine. So be sad. But don’t direct your vitriol at me,” Viktor returned icily.

“I’m not!”

“You are!”

“ _How can you be this way_?” Minako demanded, her voice verging on hysteria, “I knew you wouldn’t care about my family, but I thought you at least cared about me! But you don’t! You don’t even want me to go to my own father’s funeral! You weren’t even going to say goodbye!”

“I didn’t think you wanted to go!” Viktor retorted defensively, “and I don’t see why you’re so mad at me! All I ever did was offer –!”

Minako’s hands curled into fists, “I don’t need money or a title, or an excuse to miss the funeral, Viktor!”

The Prince rolled his eyes, “Well there’s nothing else I can –”

“Of course there is!” Minako wailed, “Haven’t you been listening? I don’t need my _Prince_ , Viktor . . . I need my _friend_!”

Great ugly sobs shook her body; her lips quivered in an attempt to suppress another wail.

The rain continued to pour; rhythmic and unrelenting.

“You . . .” Viktor hedged, “You consider us . . . friends?”

Betrayal slapped Minako across the face.

Now _this_ was just too much.

“Do you _not_?” she demanded, her face red and blotchy from crying.

“No!” Viktor gasped, “That isn’t how I –! That’s not what I –! I just didn’t want to assume! I would like that very much. If we were. If you think we are,” the words tumbled out, messy and chaotic and as unlike Viktor as they could possibly be.

Eventually, he gave up and surrendered to the silence, “I just . . . I’m . . . not very good with people crying in front of me,”

“Believe me, I _know_ ,” Minako snapped, her voice slurred and weepy.

A cold wind blew a smattering of frigid rain into the hall; Minako shivered and cried even harder.

She squeezed her eyes shut tight; this wasn’t how she had wanted to leave things.

Her family estate was so far away that it was faster to go by ship; and even then, the trip would take months. She would be gone for so long and –

Soft fabric gently caressed her cheek.

She blinked her eyes open, and more tears fell.

Viktor contritely dabbed at those as well.

He suddenly stopped short and offered the handkerchief over wordlessly; embarrassed by the intimacy.

Minako took it from him gently. It was one of his finest, one of his favourites; one of the soft white linen ones, with the lace trim and the golden monogram.

Viktor stared silently at the floor as she slowly dried her eyes.

At length, the sobbing stopped and Minako’s head was mostly clear again.

She took a deep breath, “I’m sorr– ”

“As am I,”

Minako extended her hand to return the handkerchief.

Viktor looked from the cloth to her eyes, “Keep it?” he requested softly.

Minako nodded, her eyes fixated on the little token.

“You . . .” Viktor continued, “You might need it again . . . when I’m not there . . .  with you . . . to give it to you. If you need it,” he explained awkwardly.

Minako smiled and tucked the handkerchief carefully into her bodice.

“I thought the lady was supposed to _give_ the token, not receive it” She teased, her voice still thick with sadness.

Viktor shrugged, ill-at-ease, “I’m Crown Prince of the Northern Territories,” he mumbled, “I can do as I please,”

He tried to smile to show he was joking, but it looked more like a grimace; Minako melted anyway.

Viktor unfurled the umbrella and escorted Minako out to the carriage, ensuring she remained as dry as possible. He sent her off with a final, fond farewell.

The rain pounded on the roof of the carriage and the road rumbled beneath her as it peeled down the promenade.

Minako sniffled and pulled out the handkerchief, seeking comfort in the familiar golden “V.N.”

She was barely off the castle grounds, and already she couldn’t wait to come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [French] J’ACCUSE! = I accuse (Literal) (Phrase made famous by Emile Zola in a public letter attacking the irregularities of the Dreyfus trial (published Jan. 13, 1898).)
> 
> [French] Chéri = Darling (Colloquial)


	15. The Battle, The Spell . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is a Battlefield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Friends! So, I did that thing again where I channeled the spirit of J.R.R. Tolkien and got WAY TOO DEEP into the details, and subsequently this chapter got hella long - so I decided to split it into two parts. The Upside = Yay, new chapter!!! The Downside = Gotta wait a bit longer for the end.
> 
> But for now, enjoy Chapter 15! (Bonus Points if you liked the reference in the "Chapter Summary", lol). After this it's just FINALE Part 2 and then The Epilogue!
> 
> Thank you so much for all your love and support throughout this fic! It means so, so much!
> 
> For more, check out my tumblr, [silverscribblesuniverse](https://silverscribblesuniverse.tumblr.com/) and my [other fics on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Scribbles/works)!
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS:
> 
> HOLY VIOLENCE BATMAN!!! There's a big 'ol battle in this chapter - nothing more graphic than previously depicted, just WAY MORE of everything. (GUNS & GUN VIOLENCE, SWORDPLAY, EXPLOSIVES, INJURIES, BLOOD, BATTLEFIELD IMAGERY, ETC)
> 
> STRONG LANGUAGE

The forest was dark and quiet; not one leaf fluttered in the breeze as Viktor, Yuuri and Minako made their way home. The calm, winding woods enveloped them like an old friend; a stark contrast to the crimson violence they’d left behind.

“C-careful!”

Yuuri grunted as Minako’s weight sagged against him; she’d hit her head in the fall, and had started seeing spots.

Viktor was still bloody.

Once they’d made it safely back to the hidden path, Yuuri had insisted that he and Minako walk; knowing that Viktor’s wounds could not properly close while subjected to the stress and speed of their flight.

Despite the Prince’s protests, they slowly ambled across the last league of the journey on foot.

Viktor fell into step beside Yuuri, plucking Minako up with a wince. A fresh pool of red welled up on his left arm, where one of his gashes was trying to scab over.

Even so, Yuuri did not object.

Minako pouted and curled into Viktor, shielding her eyes as the Prince cradled her with wounded arms.

“I’m sorry,”

The darkness swallowed Yuuri’s apology.

“You’re safe,” Viktor whispered, “Minako is safe. So is Phichit. That’s all that matters,”

“But you’re –”

“That’s all that matters to _me_ ,”

Yuuri nodded, too exhausted and miserable to object. The adrenaline was gone now, leaving nothing but guilt to take its place.

“J.J. won’t stop,” Yuuri cautioned, “He’ll hunt us to the ends of the earth, if he has to,”

“Let him come,” Viktor growled, “the enchantments are more than a match for him,”

“And Isabella? What if she gets in trouble –?”

“Isa fine . . .” Minako murmured, “Was ‘er idea . . .”

“Don’t worry, Lyuobv Moya,” Viktor soothed, “once the spell is broken, I’ll find a way to put everything to rights. I promise,”

“Throw ‘im a dungeon,” Minako mewled, “off n’ his head . . .”

Viktor raised a quizzical brow; Yuuri snorted, “I think she means J.J.,”

The Prince huffed a little laugh, “first things first,” he replied, “let’s just get the two of you home,”

As they trudged, the winding road became muddy underfoot; pulling Yuuri deeper and deeper into the filth until he was struggling against the suction. Eventually he lost a shoe to it.

“Ah!”

“Yuuri?”

“I’m alright!” The Dancer yelped, hopping on one foot to retrieve his wayward slipper, “it’s just . . . really wet –”

“Odd,” Viktor muttered, examining his own dirt-caked paws, “we should have reached the boundary of the spell by now –”

“Then . . . it should be winter here,” Yuuri reasoned, “not summer”.

“Yes,” Viktor confirmed gravely, “it should”.

The two exchanged a quick look, before taking off down the path.

“Maybe it only melted a bit –” Viktor proposed, “We made a few discoveries about the spell while you were away, it’s probably just –”

They rounded the bend, and Viktor fell silent.

Yuuri gasped.

“It’s . . . _gone_ ”.

Though the summer air was sweet and warm, the Prince stood frozen in place.

The Ice Gate had vanished without a trace.

“But . . . but this is where it used to be, right?” Yuuri stammered, carefully picking his way forward to investigate, “It – it was right here! I’m sure of it!”

There were no puddles, no melting icicles or muddy windrows where the wall had once stood; just a dirty spring-smelling path and naked, trembling branches.

Unease and apprehension spurred them onward. The world turned to mulch beneath their feet as they crested the hill, coming to rest just past the stately maple tree.

“V-viktor! The Castle!”

The Prince could not believe his eyes.

“It looks . . . completely normal,”

Silver moonlight illuminated the impressive estate below; a pristine stonework castle, shrouded in effervescent greenery. The shrubberies were lush, the promenade swept, the garden in full bloom. In the distance, they could just make out the dizzying heights of the hedge maze beyond the proud stone edifice.

Without another word, they raced for the door.

Yuuri nearly slammed into it in his haste; regaining his composure just in time to haul it open for Viktor and Minako.

They were greeted by calamity.

“LOOK!”

“They’re back!”

“ _It’s Yuuri_!”

“Hey, everyone! They’re –”

“Is that . . . _Minako_?”

“They made it!”

“Minako’s with them too!”

“Viktor! Your arm! You’re hurt–!”

A welcoming committee – or a watch – had gathered on the grand staircase. Despite the sinking feeling in his stomach, Yuuri couldn’t help but smile.

He was finally home . . . and his family was here waiting; Chris, Masumi, Yakov, Mila, Sara, Yuri, Otabek, Minami, Makka, and even –

“YUURI!”

The Dancer stumbled back as he was swept into a fierce hug.

“Oh thank mercy!” Phichit cried, “You’re okay. You’re alright –”

“P-Phichit . . .”

Yuuri’s eyes stung with tears as he embraced his brother for the first time in months.

“I was so worried!” Phichit scolded, refusing to let go, “Yuuri, _what were you thinking_? Do you have _any_ idea what you put me through?”

Yuuri snorted; the words sounded so strange, coming from Phichit of all people.

Strange, but nice.

“Now you know how _I_ feel,” The Dancer teased, squeezing him even tighter.

“Yea, yea,” Phichit relented, finally pulling away, “I may be reckless, but at least _I’ve_ never gotten engaged to my sworn enemy while indebted to a cursed Prince under a mysterious spell.”

Yuuri cast his brother a wry expression.

“What?” Phichit pouted, “Just let me have this one, Yuuri. I saved the day, didn’t I?”

Yuuri smiled; _mercy_ , it was good to see his brother again.

Their sweet reunion was cut short by a sudden squawk.

“Vitya! You’re _bleeding_!”

“What happened?”

“What about _Minako_? Is she okay?”

“Yes, yes, we’re fine,” Viktor assured, “We’re _all_ fine. _I’m_ fine . . .”

“But what happened?”

“How did you –?”

“Did you run into –?”

Viktor sighed, “Let’s just say, our good friend Monsieur Leroy _wasn’t_ very happy to see me”.

“He _saw_ you? Oh, Vitya . . .” Yakov groaned, “ _must you_ be so heavy-handed?”

 Viktor didn’t back down, “I did what I had to”.

“It wasn’t his fault!” Yuuri cried, “W-we got caught sneaking out of town. J.J. almost –”

“It doesn’t matter,” Viktor interrupted gently, sensing that Yuuri was about to tumble into another shame spiral, “We’re all here together now, safe and –”

“Minako?” Phichit whispered, slipping in close to the tutor, “are you awake?”

A small groan escaped the tutor’s lips as she shifted in Viktor’s arms.

“Mmm . . . ‘m fine, Phich . . .” Minako promised, eyes still closed, “juss hit m’ head in th’ fall . . .”

She tilted her face up to look at him; a bruise had formed around her right eye.

“Let’s get her comfortable,” Masumi instructed, “Q-quickly. I’ll bother Nikolai for some ice. A-and some bandages for –”

Viktor shook his head, making for the stairs, “Ice first. Mine can wait. Meet us in the Eastern Suite. There is _much_ to discuss.”

Masumi nodded and fluttered off down the corridor.

Yuuri, Phichit and the rest of the staff swept after their Prince like the tide.

Phichit quickly caught up to his brother, yanking hard on Yuuri’s sleeve, “ _Fall_?” he mouthed, “ _What_ _fall_?”

Yuuri sighed and shook his head; Phichit would find out soon enough.

 

***

 

Securely cradled in strong silver arms, Minako peeked up at her Prince.

“How are you feeling?” he cooed.

“Hmm, I’ll live,” she quipped, sporting a sardonic little smile.

Viktor smiled right back.

The Tutor blinked a few times under the bright, brassy light of the sconces; her eyes scanning the hallway, slowly taking in the view.

The Prince paused only once they reached the suite; Yuuri and Phichit darting forth to open the massive double doors for them.

Viktor swallowed hard, looking down at his weary charge, “W-welcome home, Minako,” he whispered, placing her gently on the bed.

Her dizzy eyes danced curiously around the camber, before turning back to the Prince with a smile.

“Mmm . . . my old room,” Minako sighed, “. . . it’s exactly like I remember . . .”

 

*****

 

Four leagues away, a poor provincial town was alight with fire and fury.

J.J. was gathering his army; hunters and guards and musketeers and villagers alike.

They were gearing up for the battle to come, gathering arms and saying farewell to their loved ones as they prepared to strike.

Isabella had been put into Nishigori’s custody; now, the surly Guard Captain was dragging her through the darkened streets, toward the Square – and the Gaol. She hadn’t been shackled, but one massive hand held her upper arm in a vice.

Another traitorous tear tried to fall; she quickly blinked it away.

Ugh! She didn’t have time for this, _damn it_! She had to _do_ something!

She had to stop J.J. before –

Nishigori ushered her through the little iron gate and across the dark, deserted cobbles. But, to her incredible surprise, they did not proceed straight to the Goal; instead, The Captain tugged her into a shady alcove on the far side of the steps.

“What the _hell_ is going on here, Yang?” Nishigori hissed, eyes flashing, nostrils flared, “What _was_ that thing? Where did it take them? Why did you –? Look, you’re _clearly_ involved in this mess, so tell me what I need to know, before –”

Isabella’s head spun; was The Captain . . . _helping her_?

Minako had advised her to trust him; perhaps with his assistance – and Phichit’s as well – she still had a fighting chance . . .

“ _Answer me_!” Nishigori barked.

“It’s a long story,” Isabella warned.

The Captain stared her down, “Then _summarize_ it,” he commanded, “ _Quickly_ ,”

“I –”

The scrape of boot-heels made them both jump.

“Who’s there?” The Captain snapped, “I’ll deal with you in a . . . _Marcel_?”

Isabella followed Nishigori’s eyes and gasped.

Marcel Durand was there, alright; shadowing them in the silence of the Square.

The moonlight silhouetted his dusky features beautifully.

“Uh, c-captain!” Marcel saluted, a quiver in his voice, “I . . . sorry. I was just . . .” the normally serene hunter shook from head to stern, “That _thing_ . . . what we just saw . . . I – I was worried about Isabella. _I need to know_ –”

“So do we _all_ ,” Nishigori agreed, with a pointed glare at The Huntress.

“I’ll tell you everything I know,” Isabella promised, “but you’ll have to ask Phichit the rest,”

“Phichit?”

“Phichit Chulanont? The _Tinker_?”

“That’s –”

“NO! _DON’T_!”

The trio fell silent at the unexpected outcry; straining to sift soft whispers from the shadows. Three little voices rustled in the night, like dead leaves over cobblestones.

Nishigori frowned, “GIRLS. OUT. NOW!”

A moment passed. Nothing happened.

“I said _NOW_!” he thundered.

The next moment, the triplets were tumbling out from behind a sad little birch tree, where they’d been spying. They contritely hung their heads and shuffled into line in front of their father.

“What are you three still doing up?” Nishigori scolded, “This is no time for games! Go home _this instant_! Your Okāsan is probably worried sick–”

“You can’t talk to Monsieur Chulanont!” Axel yelped.

“What?” Nishigori huffed, “Girls, I _don’t_ –”

“H-he’s _gone_!” Lutz blurted.

All three lowered their eyes; guilty and shame-faced.

“We . . . helped him sneak out of town,” Loop confessed.

“He left this morning,” Axel added, “He said he was really, really, _really_ sorry –”

“He said it was an emergency!” Lutz insisted, “He said he had to stop the wedding, and that someone was in trouble!”

“He said he had to go somewhere important . . . and . . . and that he might find Minako-Senpai there,” Loop finished.

“ _He_ sent the beast!” Isabella gasped, “He must have gone back to the –”

“ _No_ ,” Nishigori hissed, “No, he . . . he _couldn’t_ have. He _wouldn’t_. I _refuse_ to believe that Phichit had anything to do with–”

“Believe it, Captain,” Isabella challenged, “or there’s no point in hearing the rest,”

Nishigori grit his teeth, releasing her arm in silent surrender.

The girls stood up on curious tip-toes to listen, hoping their intel would prove valuable enough to forgive their earlier eavesdropping.

Marcel nervously glanced over his shoulder, as if J.J. might discover them any second.

Isabella took a deep breath, “Yuuri and Minako were telling the truth,” she said, “The Beast _wasn’t_ kidnapping anyone, and he _isn’t_ dangerous. We have to _stop J.J._ . . . before an innocent man gets killed,”

 

*****

 

“. . . then Mickey just started _shrieking_!” Mila giggled.

Sara puffed out her cheeks, “‘ _Get your hands off my sister, you little rat_ ’!” she cried, imitating her brother, “Oh, it was _so_ embarrassing!”

“You mean, _hilarious_!” Mila corrected, “Oh, Minako, you should have _seen_ the look on poor Yuuri’s face!”

Little splashes of laughter bubbled through the Eastern Suite.

Minako smiled.

She sat upright on her old sky-blue bed, holding a pack of ice over her right eye. Mila and Sara perched on her lap, gossiping about Yuuri’s stay at the Castle.

Just like old times.

It wasn’t exactly the home-coming she’d always imagined – with the black eye and the angry mob and all – but none of that mattered, now that she finally had her family back.

The senior staff had congregated in the suite, along with Yuuri, Phichit and Viktor; a decidedly more dour discussion looming on the horizon.

The Prince had finished reciting the tale of their little adventure in town – now, they were all lost in thought, contemplating what to do next.

“ _Isabella_?” Phichit reiterated, swinging his good leg as he ruminated at the foot of the bed, “Isabella _Yang_? _Yuuri-hating_ , _glasses-breaking_ , _fire-starting_ Isabella Yang?  _That_ Isabella? She _actually_ –?”

Yuuri shrugged, “impossible, but true,” he confirmed.

Phichit sighed, “Will wonders never cease?”

Yuuri looked back to his Prince, frowning as his gaze met clumps of matted red fur.

He’d been able to convince Viktor to rest in the plush teal armchair, but had failed to coax him into dressing his wounds.

Apparently this little war council was _far too important_ to postpone; even for the _two seconds_ it would take to patch him up. But, Viktor had made up his mind, and Yuuri knew nothing in the world could be done to change it now.

Much to Yuuri's chagrin, Viktor had affected his “imperial” disposition; meaning he was much more _Prince_ than _Beast_ at the moment – an unfortunate development, considering that ‘Beast Viktor’ had actually proven to be the more _agreeable_ of those two extremes.

And so, ‘Prince Viktor’ sat there, wounded and wilting like the world’s most tragic statue; insisting he was perfectly fine, even as the red tang of iron wafted from him like a perfume.

“So . . . what happens now?” Masumi hedged, frowning between Chris and Yakov on the bedside table.

“We should prepare for battle,” Viktor decreed, “plan our defense”.

“J.J. won’t stop,” Yuuri mournfully agreed, “he’s certain to come after us once he finds the –”

Minako squeaked; all eyes turned to her.

She took a deep breath, shifting on the bed, “. . . he has”.

“ _What_?” The Brothers cried in unison.

“J.J. found the castle,” Minako repeated, “I don’t know how he did it, but he’s been planning an attack for days. Isabella said so”.

“B-but _why_?” Yuuri demanded, “J.J. _said_ – he _promised_ if I married him that he’d –”

“He _lied_ , Yuuri”.

The Dancer’s trembling fingers curled into fists.

Minako frowned, “from what Isabella told me, it seems J.J. never had any intention of keeping his word. Once he’d gotten what he wanted, he was going to come after Viktor anyway,”

“That _bastard_!” Phichit snarled.

“I-I’m so sorry, Yuuri . . .” Minako whispered.

The Dancer swallowed hard, squashing the nauseated butterflies blooming to life in his stomach, “J.J. won’t waste any time then,” he replied, “He probably followed us with Marchand’s Men. They could be here any minute!”

Viktor frowned, “With Lord Maire Marchand’s support, J.J. practically has an army. Hunters, Town Guards, Musketeers . . . and who-knows-how-many angry Villagers”.

“Oh, _great_!” Yuri growled from his perch atop Makkachin, “ _How the hell are we supposed to_ –?”

“W-what about the enchantments?” Yuuri stammered, “What happened to the Castle? Why is everything –?”

“That’s probably my fault, somehow,” Viktor sighed, “As it turns out . . . I was wrong about the rose, Yuuri. It isn’t a timer, it’s a conduit for the magic . . . and a reflection of my own heart. I – I must have done something. I don’t know what . . . but once we’re finished here, I’ll go examine the rose and–”

“I’m afraid you _can’t_ , chéri,” Chris interrupted.

Viktor’s brow furrowed, “What? Why not?”

“Because . . . the rose disappeared”.

“Disappeared?” Viktor echoed, empty and exhausted, “What do you mean, ‘disappeared’?”

“I mean, _it disappeared_ ,” Chris snapped, “evaporated, vanished, ceased to be–”

“One minute, everything was normal –” Otabek began.

“Pfft, normal for _this place_ , anyway,” Yuri huffed.

“The rose was glowing, the sun was out, the snow was melting,” Chris continued, “then – poof –!”

“It just . . . faded away!” Mila cried, “like a ghost or something!”

“ _Everything_ did!” Sara confirmed, “The snow, the enchantments, the sculptures on the veranda – everything the Castle ever conjured! It all just disappeared!”

“Disappeared to _where_?” Viktor demanded, panic coursing through his veins.

Chris frowned, “I wish we knew, mon petite bichon”.

“ _Think_ , Vita,” Yakov growled, “ _What did you do_?”

“Nothing!” Viktor yelped, “I didn’t do _anything_! At least, I don’t think I –”

“You _had to_ have done something!” Yakov countered, “The rose responds to _your_ –”

“. . . Maybe it was me”.

All eyes turned to Minako; the ice lowered from her face.

She raised her heavy eyes to Phichit, “I think you were right,” she said miserably, “. . . I de-stabilized the structure,”

A dozen apprehensive eyes turned to The Inventor.

Phichit’s own eyes went wide; dumbstruck for the very first time in his life.

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Yuri snapped, stomping down with a cute little ‘clink’ – right on Makka’s back.

The dog-stool growled her annoyance.

“I had this theory,” Phichit explained, “that if Minako could somehow remember her old life, _despite_ the spell’s influence, then maybe . . .”

“It would be nullified,” Yuuri finished, quickly catching on, “like a . . . a magic loop-hole”.

Mianko nodded miserably, “But you’re all still . . . _you know_ . . .”

“So, Minako’s memories didn’t _break_ the spell; she may have just caused it to _malfunction_ ,” Phichit reasoned.

The Brothers turned to Minako with simultaneous interrogations. 

“ _How did you do it_?”

“ _When did you remember_?”

She looked between them, dizzy and lost, “I . . . I always remembered a little bit,” she puzzled, “I had feelings and instincts and Viktor’s kerchief . . . then I read Yuuri’s atlas, got the names and remembered a little bit more. Nothing big though, just . . . eyes. Viktor’s eyes. It – it wasn’t until I ran into him and actually _saw_ those eyes again that I –”

“A-HA!” Yakov cried, “So, Vitya _did_ do something! He was discovered!”

“But . . . was it the act of Minako _remembering_ which made the rose vanish - or just the fact that Viktor was _seen_ , or something else entirely?” Phichit objected, “There’s no way to say with certainty, until –”

“But what does this mean for us?” Nikolai asked, “And the spell?”

“It doesn’t matter! J.J. is still on the move,” Masumi interjected, “The spell can wait. Right now, we need a plan, magic or no!”

“But if Viktor could just _break the spell_ , there’d be no need to fight!” Chris insisted.

“Masumi is right,” Viktor ruled, rising to his feet, “I have to protect our home . . . rose or no rose”.

The assembled staff looked to their Prince, wary and uncertain.

“I am the only one to blame for our current predicament,” Viktor explained, “The spell is my responsibility, as is the defense of my estate . . . _and my family_. If J.J. wants to reach the Castle, he’ll have to go through _me_ ”.

The chamber dissolved into chaos.

 “Viktor, _no_!”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“You _can’t_ –!”

“It’s madness!”

“We’ll find another way!”

“Enough! _Please_ ,” Viktor thundered, “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve made my decision. No one else should be put in danger because of my mistakes!”

Yuuri’s face crumpled in anger.

“No!” he objected, “Viktor, you can’t –! I won’t let you –!”

The Prince’s expression softened; he turned to Yuuri, gently brushing The Dancer’s bangs out of his eyes.

“J.J. is coming to ‘ _slay The Beast_ ’,” he murmured, “If I face him, he’ll have no reason to –”

“S-s-so what are you going to do?” Yuuri demanded, “Slap him with a silk glove and challenge him to a duel?”

“If that’s what it takes, then _yes_ ,”

“ _Right_. It doesn’t matter if you _die_ , so long as you die like a _gentleman_?”

“ _Yuuri_ –”

“Listen to me! J.J. _doesn’t fight fair_! What if he –?”

“Then I’ll stop him –”

“But what if you _can’t_? What if he –?”

“I _will_. I won’t fail you again, Yuuri – I swear it!”

“Oh, I see, so it’s alright for _you_ to run off and endanger yourself to save the Castle, but when _I_ do it –”

“I almost lost you once already! _You can’t expect me to sit back and do nothing_!”

“ _And you can’t expect me to stand aside and watch you die_!”

The chamber fell silent; not a soul dared stir as The Prince and The Dancer stared one another down.

Yuuri shook – his lip quivered – but he didn’t back down; hands still curled into fists at his side. Viktor’s expression was conflicted; torn between heroism and heartache.

The tension was palpable.

A moment later, Phichit sighed and slid off the bed.

He strode over to the pig-headed Prince with purpose; fist pressed to his chin in contemplation.

Phichit cleared his throat, “as your resident mechanical genius, allow me to offer my evaluation of your proposed defensive strategy, your Highness”. He spoke eloquently – smooth, calm, monotone – like he always did when he had an idea.

Viktor’s brow crinkled in confusion. He grudgingly nodded his assent; curious in spite of himself – and too distracted to see Phichit’s trap for what it was.

“While you do gain advantage under _normal_ single-combat conditions – having size, strength and natural weaponry to fall back on – J.J. is _not_ a close-quarters fighter. He’s a _hunter_. He favors ranged weapons – rifles, muskets, pistols and the like – and you, My Furry Prince, make one _very large target_. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen J.J. swing a sword . . . but if he can pick off a hare from horseback, he can take you down before you get anywhere near him. Not to mention the fact that the spell – malfunctioning or not – requires you to successfully meet the enchantress’ conditions in order to break . . . so if you don’t survive J.J.’s little coup d’état, the spell presumably cannot be broken; which in turn, dooms your loved ones to a lifetime as fine china,”

The Prince opened his muzzle to object, but no words came.

Phichit shrugged, “I’m sorry, Viktor . . . noble as your intentions are, engaging J.J. one-on-one is, frankly, a tactical nightmare,”

The Inventor turned to Yuuri, smirking as he mouthed the words, “ _you’re welcome._ ”

The Dancer’s trembling lips pulled into a weak smile.

“Well then,” Chris grinned, “sounds like it’s decided, mon petite bichon!”

“That’s right,” Masumi staunchly agreed, “No fighting for you!”

“W-what?” Viktor objected, “But –!”

“No back-talk Vitya!” Yakov barked, “Once we’re done here, you’ll go straight to your chambers and _stay there_ , understand?”

“B-but I –?”

“No matter what happens, _you stay inside_ , Vitya!” Yakov commanded, “Do I make myself _perfectly_ clear?”

Viktor’s face contorted into a scowl, ready to snap right back, when soft, trembling hands took hold of his paw.

“P-please, Viktor?”

The Prince looked down. Yuuri was blinking up at him; big beautiful brown eyes on the verge of tears, “You-you’re already so hurt . . .”

Viktor looked away, swallowing his pride like a bitter pill.

He supposed he couldn’t argue with that.

The Prince surrendered with a sigh, deciding it was probably smarter – not to mention _safer_ – to stay in The Brothers’ good graces; he loved Yuuri more than anything else in the world – and quite frankly, was terrified what Phichit might pull next, should he refuse to cooperate.

The Prince turned back to his beloved, “For you, Lyubov Moya . . . anything”.

Yuuri beamed up at him, relief written plainly across his beautiful features.

“Now, with Viktor out of the picture,” Phichit continued, “we’ll be significantly out-manned. A direct confrontation will never work. So I say, we . . . _improvise_ ”.

A devious smile spread across The Inventor’s face.

Yuuri released Viktor, turning to his brother, “You sound like you have a plan,” he quipped.

Phichit couldn’t have possibly looked any smugger, “this place has an _armoury_ , right?”

“Of course,” Yakov huffed, “but all of our Chevaliers are currently _indisposed_ ,”

“They’re pinned to the wall,” Sara explained.

“Stuck tight,” Mila added.

“Like paintings,” Minami honked.

“But you have _cannons_ , I assume _?_ ” Phichit pressed, undeterred.

“Up in the turrets . . .” Viktor answered suspiciously, “never used. Not in my time, at least. Why?”

Phichit raised a brow, “Well, as a wise man once said: where there’re cannons, there’s black powder . . . and where there’s black powder, there’s _fireworks_ ,”

His words produced a melodic mix of gasps and groans; some excited, some confused . . . and some achingly familiar.

“Oh _mercy_ ,” Yuuri muttered, slapping a hand over his eyes.

“Now, what I have in mind won’t hold them off forever, but it might give us a fighting chance,” Phichit declared, “Masumi – I’ll need every sentient utensil you’ve got, all the spare paper in the Castle . . . and any staff who still have _hands_ ; preferably with opposable thumbs, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Consider it done,” Masumi pledged.

“We should fortify the entrances as well,” Yakov proposed, looking to Viktor as a courtesy more than anything else, “Anyone . . . or any _thing_ able to stand and fight should be posted at one of the doors. We can barricade the more problematic points of entry.”

“ _Barricade_?” Georgi chirped, “leave _that_ to me!”

Everyone jumped at the sudden interjection; Georgi had been so silent, they’d all assumed he was asleep.

Viktor nodded to Yakov, “do it,” he agreed, regaining his composure.

“And water!” Yuuri squeaked, “Buckets of it, and heavy blankets in every room . . . just in case –”

The assembly looked to him with quizzical eyes.

“J.J. threatened to burn the castle down,” The Dancer reminded them morosely, “and if we’re going to be playing with fire . . .”

Phichit stood up straight, “I’ll be careful, Yuuri,” he vowed, “You have my word,”

Yuuri nodded, “I know you will,”

“Good. It’s decided, then. We’ll beat them back until they surrender!” Yakov declared.

A cheer rose from the staff.

“Minami, start spreading the word,” Masumi instructed, “Yuri, Mila, Sara – you’re with Phichit. Get him everything he needs. Yakov, Otabek, start posting the troops – and Georgi . . . start, uh, getting yourself downstairs? Nikolai, Yuuri – you two are in charge of the fire safety measures and first aid. Chris, you’re with me. We’ll have to work together to keep everyone organized, if we want any hope of pulling this off –”

Chris cast his paramour a doting smile, “there’s nowhere I’d rather to be,” he pledged.

Masumi grinned right back.

Minako shifted on the bed, slowly pushing herself upright, “I’m going with Phichit,” she declared, sliding to her feet.

“No! Minako, it’s alright!” Phichit gasped, “just – just stay here and rest –”

The Tutor stood to her full height, “I just came home for the first time in _twenty years_ ,” she challenged, “I may have a black eye, but my thumbs are as opposable as ever,”

Phichit grinned, “Then the ' _dashing duo_ ' is reunited at last!” he quipped, “Tell me, how do you feel about powder-packing, _Lady_ Okukawa?”

With a smirk, Phichit linked his arm with Minako’s, and led his team from the room. The rest soon began to follow in kind, filling the chamber with chatter as they dispersed. Minami eagerly hopped to the front of the line to get started on his very important job, while Georgi huffed and creaked and groaned, slowly inching his way over to the door.

Viktor looked upon his staff with pride; but though it warmed his heart to see his friends come together in their time of crisis, he loathed the slimy helpless feeling that coiled around his ribs.

“Vitya! Chambers! _Now_!” Yakov reminded, hollering above the din.

Viktor pouted; right – as if he’d _forgotten_.

A sympathetic squeeze to his paw drew his attention back to Yuuri; his brave, wonderful Yuuri.

“I’ll come find you as soon as I’m done and help you get cleaned up, okay?” The Dancer offered, his gaze drawn inexorably back to The Prince’s matted wounds.

In response, Viktor cast his beloved a small, appreciative smile.

With one last loving squeeze, Yuuri was gone.

“You know, _mon petite bichon_ . . .” a mischievous voice purred, “You need not be taken out of this fight _entirely_ . . .”

With a jolt, Viktor looked down to find Chris lingering at his feet.

“You may want to consider taking this rather inconvenient opportunity to _reflect on breaking the spell_ ,” The Candelabrum suggested, with a _very_ pointed look.

Viktor took a deep breath and nodded his agreement.

Right. The Spell. He could do that. He could –

“And . . . this goes without saying, I’m sure,” Chris continued, “but, I believe it _behooves you_ to keep our dear, sweet Yuuri _out of the cross-fire_ . . . _n'est-ce pas_?”

Dread struck Viktor’s heart like a bolt of lightning.

“I’ll make certain of it,” he vowed, “don’t worry,”

The Maître D’ smirked in response, but his smile was shadowed, “bon toutou,” he teased; the words sounding more like a farewell than a joke.

Soon, he too made for the door; leaving Viktor all alone in the abandoned Eastern Suite.

 

*****

 

Isabella paced The Gaol’s antechamber, anxiously inspecting her troops.

“This _is everyone_?” She asked incredulously, turning to Marcel.

The Hunter slumped, “everyone we could get,” he apologized, “everyone who would believe us -”

Isabella slowly looked back to the rag-tag group of rebels.

By some miracle, Marcel and The Captain had _actually_ believed her impossible story -  _and_ they were both willing to join her mad quest for redemption.

As J.J. and his ilk were preparing to set off, Isabella’s allies had secretly slipped through their ranks; approaching every fighter they could think of who might take their side over his.

Before her now stood The Captain and Marcel – of course – along with five of the six regular town guards; Officers Lee, Javier and Yelyzaveta, along with Officer Aditi and her twin brother, Officer Amar. Missing from their ranks was Officer Ebele, who was home nursing her newborn daughter. In her place, they were joined by the retired Sargent Tsubaki who, at sixty-six years old, was still the most terrifying woman Isabella had ever met.

Also among their numbers ranked Nishigori Yuuko and her three young daughters.

The Captain’s family wouldn’t be coming into battle with them, of course – but they needed all the help they could get here at home.

The Huntress gave her volunteers a final once-over.

“Alright, everyone,” Isabella announced, “you know why you’re here. We don’t have much time, so here’s the plan: Captain Nishigori, the Officers, Marcel and I will follow J.J. and his mob, take control of the situation, and mitigate the damage as much as possible. The goal is to _disarm_ and _disengage_ ; we’re putting down an uprising, not starting a war. Your directives are to restore order, and to protect Katsuki Yuuri, Okukawa Minako, Phichit Chulanont, and The Beast all costs. Once at the Castle, Marcel and I will find J.J. and take him down. The hope is that, with their ring-leader incapacitated, the others will soon surrender. Move quick, stay safe, and remember our aim. Any questions?”

“What about Marchand’s Men?” Tsubaki growled, flashing her gnarled smile, “We’ve got jurisdiction over the mob, but not the musketeers – you honestly think they’ll yield if we just ask ‘em real nice?”

“Lucky for us, Marchand won’t be there,” Isabella replied, “He may act like a general, but he’s too frail to make the trek. We may be able to stretch the truth about him ‘ordering a ceasefire’. That’s where Yuuko and the girls come in”.

The triplets grinned wickedly; as did their mother.

“Don’t you worry about Marchand,” Yuuko smirked, “I’m certain the girls and I can ‘ _persuade_ ’ him to disavow the attack”.

“How?” Marcel asked.

The Triplets looked positively devilish, “ _we have our ways_ ,” they purred in unison.

Marcel cleared his throat and quickly looked away; infinitely sorry to have asked.

“If that’s all, gear up and head out!” Isabella ordered.

“Be on your guard and keep your wits about you,” Nishigori added, “we have no idea what’s waiting for us at that Castle”.

The Officers nodded and headed to the armory with Marcel, as Nishigori exchanged fond farewells with his family.

Isabella’s heart wrenched. She stalked over to the door and headed outside with a shove.

The air was still and quiet; infuriatingly peaceful for a night as bloody as this one.

At this very moment, J.J. would be departing with his army, marching toward the Castle in a parade of fire and blades.

She just hoped she would make it there in time.

 

*****

 

_‘CLANG, TWANG, SCREE, SNAP!’_

“Ah! My plectrum!”

“Steady now! Stay in position!” Chris hollered from ballroom balcony, “If J.J. gets through, you’ll have more than a cracked plectrum to gripe about!”

Leo’s whimper of pain became a scowl of determination as he shuffled snugly back into place.

Christophe surveyed the ballroom, supervising the Musicians and staff as they barricaded the great glass doors and stunning wall of windows. A line-up of sentient gardening tools stood sentry behind them - rakes, pitchforks, shovels, even a trowel or two. 

He just hoped it would be enough.

“Impressive,” Masumi quipped, coming to rest at Chris’ side, “for a moment there, you almost sounded _stern_ ”.

Chris smirked, “this from the man who only days ago called me ‘ _hopeless_ ’,” he teased.

“Not _hopeless_ ,” Masumi reminded sweetly, “inconsistent”.

With a flick of his feathers, Masumi was off; his fiancée following not far behind.

They were headed to the front now, where the bulk of their defenses lay.

The energy was electric, the tension palpable.

Chris and Masumi surveyed the chaos, quickly descending to the center landing to take it all in.

Georgi was already in place; staunchly blocking the very center of the doorway with his massive, wooden frame. A wall of inanimate furniture was currently being built up around him; heavy ottomans and plush sofas were piled on top of one another in precarious towers, while interlocking chairs ringed the makeshift blockade, keeping it in place. Makkachin curiously perused the perimeter, whimpering at them as if upset about being left out.

Further in, Yakov and Otabek were preparing an ambush; conducting legions of knick-knacks and kitchenware into strategic positions around the foyer. Skillets and butcher’s knives and rolling pins dutifully took their places among hidden alcoves and harmless decor.

“Ahh, fire from above,” Christophe noted, as pewter paperweights and stone bookends peeked through banisters on the second floor.

“Clever,” Masumi agreed, “I think we’re –”

_‘HONK! HONK, HONK, HONK!’_

“’Scuse me! One side! Herald coming through!” Minami hollered, racing past the couple in a blur of red and gold as he played messenger to the various encampments throughout The Castle.

Masumi swallowed back a yelp, “We’re – ah – as ready as we’ll ever be,” he finished.

Chris cast his lover a wry grin, “Viktor is securely sequestered to his chambers,” he said knowingly, “with _much_ to ruminate about”.

Masumi mirrored his fiancée’s smirk, “and only moments ago, I _relieved_ Yuuri of his responsibilities . . . he’s on his way to Viktor now”.

“Then we won’t have to hold J.J. off for long,” Chris affirmed, “just _long enough_ ”.

Masumi nodded, sporting his ‘nervous face’ for the first time since The Prince’s return, “you - you really think they can still break the spell?” he murmured, “even _without_ the rose?”

“I know they can, Musli,” Chris vowed, pulling the Feather Duster close, “I haven’t given up on them . . . and I’m going to keep my promise, if it’s the last thing I do.”

 

*****

 

Ex-Prince Viktor Nikiforov paced his chamber; eyes fixed on the cloudy horizon beyond his balcony windows.

Nothing.

Nothing here. Nothing yet. Nothing he could do.

When would J.J. come?

Viktor was going stir-crazy, relegated to the ‘safety’ of his dark and dreary chamber; ordered to sit back and do nothing, when he should have been leading the charge to defend his home. He’d tried – for a time – to turn his mind on the spell, as Chris had suggested, but no matter how hard he fought it, his thoughts inevitably wandered back to the bloody business at hand.

Truthfully, even _had_ he been able to focus, Viktor wasn’t optimistic about his chances with the spell; a _curse_ , he could handle, a _time limit_ , he could handle, a _magical analogue of his own heart_ , he could handle . . . but _this_?

This _silence_? This _nothingness_? This _abandonment_?

 _How in the merciful fuck_ was he supposed to break the spell now, when he had less to go on than a boat full of holes?

Perhaps he could use his endless litany of questions to fashion himself a raft, and float himself to safety.

Perhaps if he just _wished_ hard enough, The Universe would be merciful and provide him with an answer.

Or perhaps - after all these years - the Enchantress had finally bested him.

Viktor halted his pacing, trying to ignore the familiar ache of failure fluttering between his ribs; his heart emptier than the little iron side table.

‘ _Tap, tap, tap_ ’.

One towering chamber door creaked open, exposing a sliver of honeyed light.

Viktor hardly noticed; his eyes still plastered to the balcony windows, staring straight out into the starless night beyond.

Quiet. It was too quiet.

When would J.J. come?

A concerned hum, a rattle of china, a flicker of candlelight; all barely registered, resonating somewhere far away.

“Viktor?”

The Prince nearly jumped as Yuuri took hold of his paw.

He greeted The Dancer with a soft smile; the reaction automatic as Yuuri pulled him from his reverie.

His beloved could always make him smile – even in times as dire as these.

The Dancer grinned in return, but his eyes looked no less haunted. “Come on,” he beckoned, “I’ll patch you up”.

Viktor allowed Yuuri to tug him over to the bed, but as The Dancer fussed about with his tray of medical supplies, Viktor’s eyes wandered once more to the void beyond his chamber.

Similarly, Yuuri didn’t force a conversation either; though whether that was out of contrition or dread, Viktor couldn’t say.

Suddenly, his shoulder stung; sharp, like the bite of a brand.

His eyes flickered over to Yuuri, unable to suppress a pitiful little whimper of pain.

The Dancer pouted right back up at him, “Honestly, it’s just _medicine_ ,” he teased, “can’t be any worse than the actual _getting shot_ part –”

Yuuri’s words were gentle; but terse undertones stuck to them like a burr.

A little spring of shame welled up in Viktor’s chest.

Here he was, consumed with thoughts of J.J., when he should have been savoring every last second with Yuuri. 

The Prince tried to relax and sit there quietly, so Yuuri could tend to him; obediently shifting whenever The Dancer asked, in order to reach his various gashes. Viktor whimpered only once more, as matted clumps of red slowly relinquished silver fur. He was starting to feel it now; the heaviness of his eyelids, the stiffness in his joints – dreading how much worse he would feel come morning.

If they made it ‘till morning, that is.

“There, all done”.

Yuuri slid neatly off the bed and went to retrieve Viktor’s massive shirt from where it hung on the handle of a wardrobe.

The Dancer slowly padded back over, holding it out like a white flag. Viktor took it with gentle paws and slid it on to conceal his bandages.

“Thank you, solnyshko”.

Yuuri bit his lip and nodded, turning away to gather up his supplies.

“You should rest,” he mumbled, “I should . . . let you rest”.

With that, he scooped up his tray and headed for the door.

“Wait!” Viktor yelped, “. . . you’re not staying?”

Yuuri blinked away his surprise, “. . . s-staying?”

Viktor cleared his throat, as if to dislodge Chris’s morose warning.

He could do this. He could break the spell - right here and now  - and then there’d be no need for –

“The others have things well in hand . . . don’t you think?” Viktor beseeched.

The empty iron side table mocked him.

Yuuri hesitated, shuffling his feet.

“Please, lyubov moya?” Viktor entreated, “I’m so sorry for worrying you – I know if it were me, I – I couldn’t bear it to see you hurt either. So please . . . stay close to me?”

Yuuri melted at Viktor’s puppy-eyed apology; drawn inexorably back to his Prince’s side, depositing the tray of medical supplies on the way.

Viktor was ready with an embrace, tugging Yuuri close the instant The Dancer stepped into the circle of his arms. His beloved quickly crumbled under the onslaught of affection; shaking with soft, relieved sobs as thin little tears trailed down his cheeks.

“I-I was so scared,” Yuuri sniffled, nuzzling into the mothy fabric of Viktor’s shirt, “so scared I was going to lose you . . .”

“Never,” Viktor pledged, holding on even tighter, “You won't lose me – I’ll always come back to you, Yuuri. No matter what. I promise”.

Eventually, The Dancer’s tears ran dry; arms began to slacken, and reluctantly, Viktor released his love.

Yuuri sniffed just once more, tugging the hem of his filthy waistcoat back into place.

“P-phichit seems ready, at least,” he offered, in an effort to change the subject, “I went to check on him earlier. He’s got the whole second story manned. There’s a team at every window, each with their own assembly line. It’s like a factory up there –”

Viktor nodded, absently looking out at the night once again, “He’s in good spirits, then?”

Yuuri snorted, “Too good, if you ask me,” he joked. The words fell flat, blowing away like smoke on the breeze.

He followed Viktor’s sullen gaze.

“. . . Watching won’t make him come any faster, you know”.

Viktor swallowed hard and nodded, “I know . . . it just feels like I should be _doing_ someth–”

“I know,” Yuuri echoed, a thousand and one ‘what if’s’ poised on the tip of his tongue.

Viktor contritely shook out his mane, as if to clear his head; _mercy’s sake_ , what was _wrong_ with him? He was supposed to be _breaking the spell_ , not _guilting_ his beloved.

“Apologies, lyubov moya” The Prince sighed, gently brushing Yuuri’s bangs out of his eyes, “I didn’t mean to upset you. Why don’t I draw the curtains, hm? Then my attention is all yours”.

With a small, reassuring smile, Viktor padded over to the balcony.

A soft scuffling of shoes followed close behind.

“Ah, Viktor? There’s – there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you . . .”

Viktor stopped in his tracks, turning back to face The Dancer, “of course,” he invited, “anything”.

Yuuri was biting his lip, as he always did when he felt contrite or conflicted.

Not for the first time, Viktor wished he could kiss all those worries away.

“What does that mean?” Yuuri asked, “’Lyubov moya’? It’s just . . . back in The Village you said, um . . . you said you loved m–”

A piercing cry shattered the night, drawing them both immediately out onto the balcony.

The night breeze blew languidly through the trees as a shadowy horde snaked across the castle grounds; eyes of fire winking up at the empty sky. A thundering of hooves rumbled underfoot, growing louder by the second.

J.J. had arrived.

Yuuri leaned out over the rail, desperate for a closer look.

Viktor couldn’t help but follow.

J.J.’s army spilled down the promenade like an oil slick; a raucous parade of demons seeking death and destruction. At the head of the mob, J.J. sat astride a grim-faced steed; sword at his hip and pistol at the ready.

They’d brought a battering ram.

The Hunter directed his charges up to the castle doors; Yuuri only hoped Georgi and the others could hold them.

The mob wound up to strike.

_‘THWAM!’_

The entire castle shook as the battering ram smashed into walnut doors; a few pebbles shook loose from the ramparts, but thankfully, the barricade held.

A rallying cry preceded another hit from below.

_‘WHAM!’_

And another.

_‘WHAM!’_

And another.

_‘WHAM!’_

“Come on, Phichit . . .” Yuuri murmured, gripping the ledge with frozen fingers, “ _come on_ . . .”

_‘WHAM!’_

_‘WH–’_

_‘ **KABOOM**!’_

Below, a sphere of orange flame erupted to life; Phichit had made his first move.

Volatile packs of black power rained down from the second story like confetti, bursting to life at the feet of J.J. and his troops. The infantry were sent scattering as they fought to get their bearings; the battering ram, for the moment, forgotten.

“Look!” Yuuri cried, “Look! They’re retreating!”

The rag-tag militia leapt out of range; cowering behind hedges and topiaries along the promenade.

Phichit’s makeshift fireworks continued to light up the grounds – but then, with one swift motion from J.J., the musketeers fell back into line.

Yuuri’s blood ran cold.

“W-wait . . .” he gasped, “what are they doing? Why are they stopping?”

Strong silver paws wrapped around his shoulders.

“They’re laying down cover fire,” Viktor mournfully explained.

The first wave of musketeers took aim at the second story, confirming Yuuri’s worst fears.

“Wait. They’re –?”

A muted cry from J.J. rang out across the field, followed by a volley of gunshots.

“PHICHIT!” Yuuri screamed, “MINAKO!”

His cries tore the night asunder.

Viktor wrapped Yuuri in a comforting embrace; but even the arms of his Prince could not stop Yuuri’s shaking.

Wave after wave, the Musketeers kept laying down cover fire. Phichit’s explosive reign ceased under the barrage of bullets, and The Villagers took up the battering ram once more.

_‘WHAM!’_

_‘WHAM!’_

_‘WHAM!’_

_‘ **KABOOM**!’_

Like a miraculous beacon in the night, another black powder payload fell to the ground.

Yuuri very nearly heaved a sigh of relief; that meant _someone_ was still alive up there, they still had a chance, they –

_‘POW!’_

_‘THWUMP!’_

_‘ **KABOOM**!’_

_‘P’TING!’_

_‘ **BOOM** , **BOOM** , **BOO** –!’_

Then –

_‘WHAM! CREEK-CRUNCH BOOOOOM!’_

J.J. and his miscreants broke through the barrier.

A victorious roar filtered up from below as The Villagers hacked away at what little remained of the doors.

_‘Shwing! Ting, clack, clack, clack –’_

The explosives fell slower and sparser.

The embrace around Yuuri became a vice.

“Th-they’re through . . .” The Dancer gasped, “V-viktor, they’re _through_ , what do we –?”

He turned, pushing himself away to look up at his Prince.

But when he did, he saw only grief; grief and agony and shame.

Viktor’s eyes were closed, his face contorted with it; claws curled helplessly at his side.

Another payload exploded in the distance; so too did Yuuri roar to life.

“Go”.

Even as he said it, the command tormented him, clawing at his conscience and twisting his heart inside out.

Viktor slowly blinked his eyes open, talons twitching restlessly in the night.

“Wh-what? No. No! I-I won’t leave you, Yuuri – I said I would –”

Yuuri’s grip tangled knots in Viktor’s sleeves, “You were right,” he insisted, breathless against the bloody backdrop, “ _You were right_. They don’t stand a chance. You have to go down there and–”

Viktor barely hesitated before leaping up onto the ledge; silhouetted against the mottled sky like a creature out of legend.

He turned his arctic gaze back to Yuuri once more, as if ensuring he had permission; The Prince’s tortured eyes all the persuasion Yuuri needed.

“Go,” he surrendered again. 

Viktor took a deep breath and nodded, with a brief glance at the battle below.

When he looked back up, Yuuri's own expression was cold and tense; as though he were already mourning Viktor's death.

“Everything will be alright," The Prince vowed, gently reaching back to caress The Dancer’s cheek, " _I’ll always come back to you, Yuuri._ I _promised_ . . . remember?”

A sardonic little laugh broke the dam of Yuuri’s composure; a single tear fell.

“. . . how can you be so sure?”

His words were barely spoken.

Viktor’s expression shifted, softening until he wore that inscrutable expression of his – that vast, all-encompassing gaze which made Yuuri feel invincible and exposed all at once. That infinite, impossible-to-place reverence which made all the stars align and every curse fall silent; that _big unnameable ‘thing’_ which Yuuri still hadn’t been able to place in all his time at The Castle.

“Because . . .” Viktor replied, “I love you”.

The billowing of a shirt, the scrape of talons, and Viktor was gone; summoned like a spectre to the battlefield below.

Yuuri’s knees buckled.

He tipped forward, gripping the rail tight; speechless and hollow. For a moment he just stood there, completely dumbstruck – praying they hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of their lives.

 

*****

 

“ _MORE POWDER_!” Phichit commanded, “NOW!”

_‘P’ting! Thwump, thwak!’_

Another volley of musket balls ricocheted through the window; Phichit crouched low beneath the sill, ready to launch his next explosive the instant it was packed and ready.

“We’re out!” Minako cried; pressed flat on her belly by the hearth, where she’d been packing the payloads.

“WHAT?” Phichit cried.

“SHE – Ak! – SHE SAID WE’RE OUT!” Yuri hollered, popping up out of an empty powder keg. He was covered in soot, sending it puffing all over the room as he coughed. Despite his scowl, the teacup hadn’t complained once about being used as a powder-scoop.

With a groan, Phichit tipped his chin up to glance through the window.

The Musketeers were reloading.

Damn it! They couldn’t let J.J.’s men break through! _Now_ would have been the perfect chance to _stop_ them, if only he hadn’t run out of –

_WHAM! CREEK-CRUNCH BOOOOOM!’_

“DAMN IT!” Phichit thundered, watching as walnut crumbled, “they’re through the barrier!”

A victorious roar filtered up from below as The Villagers spilled forth into The Castle.

“There might be more black powder in the basement!” Mila suggested, sweeping over the packing paper at Minako’s feet.

“Right!” Sara cried, huffing as she fanned the coals in the fireplace, “Down – ah – in the armoury – ah – by Mickey!”

“We have to get to it!” Phichit decided, diving to the floor and crawling along on his belly, as another volley of musket balls clattered through the window.

“ _Are you out of your mind_?” Yuri demanded, leaving a trail of powder-black prints across the area rug, “There’s no –!”

“On the west side of the castle!” Mila interrupted, turning to Phichit, “Through the main foyer, and straight on to the end of the corridor!”

“Down the – ah – stairs!” Sara added, “then – ah – to the left!”

“What?” Yuri objected, “No way! It’s too dangerous! That’s right where Beka and Yakov are fighting J.J.’s goons! You’re gonna get –”

But Phichit didn’t hear the rest; he was already up and out, sprinting down the gilded hall into the frenzied chaos beyond.

 

*****

 

Sparks sizzled to life beneath Viktor’s talons as he scraped his way down the side of The Castle; digging trenches into stone with his ferocity.

His family had put up a good front, and they still had some fight in them yet . . . but they couldn’t hold out forever.

He needed to end this; needed to end this _now_.

The summer ground rushed up to meet him, but this time, Viktor did not slow himself down, or carelessly belly-flop onto the lawn; instead, he pushed off the wall at full speed, leaping clear over J.J.’s legions.

For one brief, beautiful moment, the night was silent; the hearts of J.J.’s men consumed with doubt, as The Beast finally entered the fray.

Viktor landed with a clatter of claws, crouched menacingly on all fours as he slid to a stop behind The Hunter on the elegant flagstone promenade.

Slowly, Viktor drew himself up to his full height; as gracious and proper a Prince as he’d ever been – but looking no less deadly, with obsidian talons glittering like icicles in the moonlight.

To J.J.’s credit, The Hunter didn’t flinch or fumble; he merely sneered, turning to face The Prince head-on.

The Hunter dismounted, pistol still at the ready; as he approached, two men flanked him on either side – one, ginormous and meaty with a scant smattering of hair, the other lanky, with long flaxen locks – hunters, by the look of their jackets. Viktor vaguely recognized the two from earlier in town; knowing the meathead was to thank for the gunshot in his side.

In the distance, villagers continued to clamber into The Castle, while the Musketeers surrendered their siege of the second story to turn their sights on The Beast.

“Well, well, well . . .” J.J. gloated, striding toward his foe, “The _Beast_ shows itself at last”.

“You’ll forgive my punctuality,” Viktor replied coolly, “I didn't realize I was expecting  _guests_ ”.

J.J. hesitated a moment – surprised by The Beast’s eloquence, perhaps – before raising the pistol in his right hand. Two more just like it dangled from his bandolier.

“That so?” J.J. goaded, “Didn’t you hear me _knocking_?”

Viktor’s chest tightened in fear, glancing over The Hunter’s shoulder at the wreckage of his walnut doors.

He forced his face not to show it.

“You are here uninvited,” The Prince decreed; regal and poised, despite the loaded pistol aimed right between his eyes, “However, I may find it in my heart to forgive your impudence, if you take your people and _go_ ”.

J.J.’s expression turned hard; no longer arrogant, but vicious in its intensity, “You took something very precious of mine,” he warned, “I’m not leaving here without it”.

The Hunter’s words were poison in Viktor’s ear.

“ _How dare you speak about Yuuri that way_!”

“ _HOW DARE YOU SPEAK OF HIM AT ALL_!” J.J. thundered, “How dare you even _look_ at him! Yuuri is _my_ intended – I saw him _first_ – and you _stole him_ from me!”

Fury licked its way through Viktor’s veins like lava, “ _Yuuri doesn’t belong to you_ ,” he growled, “Yuuri doesn’t ‘ _belong_ ’ to _any_ –”

“ _SHUT UP_!” J.J. snapped, “I don’t know what he sees in a _monster_ like _you_ . . . but I, for one, don’t take kindly to _lecherous creatures_ preying on _sweet, innocent dancers_ . . .”

Viktor couldn’t decide which was more sickening – J.J.’s repulsive insinuation, or the twisted smile he sported as he cocked his pistol.

“Soon, this will all be over,” The Hunter goaded, “and everything will be as it _should_! _You’ll_ be _dead_ , and _Yuuri_ will be _mine_ –”

“Yuuri will _never_ be yours,” The Prince challenged, “Yuuri is _his own_ man. He made _his own_ choice . . . and he chose _me_ ”.

“He chose _wrong_ ”.

The Prince and The Hunter stared one another down beneath the inky sky.

And there, on the lush, summer-kissed battle ground – somewhere between the wounded egos and empty threats and shattered hearts – Viktor finally found the answer he’d been searching for.

. . . How curious that he should find it in the eyes of an empty man like  _Jean Jacques Leroy_.

“No . . . He _didn’t_ ,” Viktor replied calmly, lowering his heckles; confident in the truth of his convictions.

“Oh yea?” J.J. sneered, “And how d’ya figure that, _Beast_?”

The poor man’s threats were so pathetic, Viktor very nearly laughed; it was like watching a pup nip at the heels of a wolf.

J.J. was nothing but a scarecrow – a patchwork of dead leaves and dry straw and scraps.

A broken music box, doomed to play the same lonely little song, over and over and over, for all eternity.

An empty bottle, containing no wine to celebrate or water to sustain or love notes to reunite – brittle and broken and empty; and wanting _so badly_ to be filled, he’d turned his own heart into a cage.

The Prince smiled down at The Hunter, victorious.

“Because, I _love_ him . . . and the same cannot be said for you”.

The shot rang out before Viktor could react.

“ _DIE, BEAST_!”

Then the world went still.

The battlefield was dim; the cover of clouds and flicker of torchlight casting eerie shadows across the faces of oncoming foes.

So perhaps it shouldn't have been surprising, when Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov did _not_ crumble to his knees in defeat.

Instead, the Prince remained standing with his beastly head held high; tossing his mane roguishly in the light breeze.

There wasn’t a scratch on him.

“And here I was told you were _the greatest hunter in the world_ ,” Viktor drawled, “how _very_ disappointing . . .”

J.J. cursed and tossed the empty pistol aside.

His anger had made him careless – his aim under par in the gloom.

Viktor smirked; apparently, Phichit had not accounted for _lighting_ in his ‘tactical evaluation’.

Or, more likely, he _had_ , and just ‘ _strategically_ ’ failed to mention it – for Yuuri’s sake, of course.

In one swift motion, The Hunter drew his sword; raising it high in invitation. He snapped at his fellows like mousetrap sprung, “Get Yuuri!” he ordered, “. . . then _burn it down_ ”.

The two lackeys bumbled away to do J.J.’s bidding.

Viktor growled in the gloom; perhaps he _didn’t_ have the advantage after all.

 

*****

 

The foyer was a swamp of chaos and confusion.

Lost little villagers ran around scared like motherless toddlers as a legion of animated sprang from the shadows.

Phichit skid to a stop on the grand staircase’s center landing, trying to divine safe passage through the calamity.

Ugh! How was he supposed to get a _powder keg_ through all _this_?

He supposed he’d just have to figure that out later –

_'HONK! HONK, HONK, HONK!’_

“HEAD’S UP, MR.-YUURI’S-BROTHER!”

Phichit ducked as Minami sailed clear over his head. The little horn leapt onto a Villager’s shoulder, wrapping his red and gold flag around the man’s eyes like a blindfold.

Phichit recognized him as Theo Miller.

“WOAH! HEY!” Theo cried, “STOP! I-I CAN’T SEE!”

The Miller’s son dropped his pitchfork as he stumbled around on the steps, trying to dislodge his attacker.

“Uh oh!” Minami honked gleefully, “ _Going down_!”

Theo’s leather shoes slid on the marble, sending himself and Minami tumbling down the steps and into the mob below.

_‘BANG! SLAM! THUD!’_

“YEA! TAKE THAT! HONK, HONK, HONK!”

“Ow . . .”

Suddenly, Makkachin zoomed past like a bat out of hell, forcing Phichit to dive out of her way. The dog-stool yowled like wounded coyote, clacking up the stairs on clumsy wooden paws.

“Makka!” Phichit cried, “ _You okay, girl_? Makka?”

The very next instant, the dog-stool was gone, and Phichit’s attention was caught by a scandalized squeal.

“AH! MY MASTERPIECES! _HOW DARE YOU_!”

It appeared that Georgi had, thankfully, survived the breach; but was now about to die of shock, watching Mr. Baker and the town Doctor tear his outfits to shreds.

With a cry of agony, Georgi flung his doors open wide; clobbering the dolts right where they stood.

Phichit slowly crept down the stairs, ducking rolling pins and bookends as they assailed the wayward villagers.

He briefly caught sight of Otabek, who was snaking through the crowd at people’s feet; jabbing them smartly on the tips of their toes, then disappearing before he could be discovered. A particularly painful jab sent Mr. Miller tumbling ass over teakettle.

“STOP THAT! PUT ME DOWN, YOU BUMBLING FOOL!”

With a gasp, Phichit turned to see Louis Dubois holding Yakov high above the ground, clenched in one stubby fist. The Barkeep had Yakov’s glass window wide open, and was curiously pawing at his pendulum.

“How’s – hic – how’s it work?” Louis muttered to himself, abandoning the pendulum in favor of a hard crank on Yakov’s key.

“YEOWWWW!!!”

“Yakov! I’m coming!” Phichit called. He slowly started to squirm through the crowd – but thankfully, Chris got there first.

With a victorious grin, the Maître D’ raised his flames and thoroughly toasted Louis’ buns.

The Barkeep dropped Yakov with a roar of pain, and scrambled to go put himself out.

The Candelabrum smirked, “Now that’s what I call a _flaming asshole_!”

His victory was short-lived however, as at that very moment, the Chaplain stumbled forward brandishing a bucket of ice water – no doubt left out as a part of the Castle’s fire relief efforts. In one swift motion, he had Christophe dangling over it, candle-first; The Maître D’ thrashed about, furiously trying to free himself, but The Clergyman had his labras securely pinned.

Chris was done for.

Phichit struggled towards them, like a salmon swimming upstream.

No!

They were too far!

He wasn’t fast enough!

He wasn’t going to make it –

Without warning, a voice as trenchant as terror itself shocked the mob into silence.

It was a voice so imperious – so caustic and grating – that it could only belong to a rabid weasel, or perhaps the Infernal Prince of Darkness himself.

“ ** _UNHAND MY FIANCEE THIS INSTANT, YOU FILTHY CAD_!** ”

Phichit nearly jumped right out of his skin.

Seconds later, a brown blur came streaking down the banister; Masumi slid on his feathers at full speed, hit the end of the rail, and hurled himself directly at The Chaplain, clobbering him with every ounce of fury in his lithe, wooden body.

A scream, a struggle; then Masumi’s handle found its target. He struck the Chaplain clear across his windpipe, sending the man sputtering to his knees.

Christophe swooned for his saviour in the most dramatic fashion possible, as Masumi continued his assault on the disgraced clergyman.

Phichit saw his chance and took it; darting through the stunned silence, as the grand entryway dissolved into chaos once more.

He managed to slip through the calamity unscathed, and took off pell-mell down the corridor.

Clearly, the staff could handle themselves.

But despite their success, The Villagers still hadn’t surrendered yet; which meant Phichit needed to get that black powder, and _fast_.

 

*****

 

The stone rail was frigid beneath Yuuri’s fingertips.

He had no idea how long he’d stood there, frozen, watching J.J.’s sword chase Viktor’s flesh.

When J.J. first set Viktor in his sights, Yuuri was certain all hope was lost.

And when J.J. fired that first shot, Yuuri nearly died of a broken heart.

But instead . . . J.J. had missed.

He’d _missed_.

J.J. _never_ missed.

Which had to mean that Viktor had gotten the upper hand somehow; thrown The Hunter off his game, put an itch in his trigger finger, intimidated him into misfiring from a mere ten paces away.

Yuuri supposed that – _perhaps_ – in his panic, he may have _underestimated_ his Prince . . . just a bit.

Now, he could only hope that J.J. would do the same.

Viktor lunged first, batting J.J.’s weapon out of the way like a cat with a ball of yarn, before knocking The Hunter right off his feet with a kick to the chest.

But Viktor didn’t pursue; The Prince kept his distance, allowing J.J. to stand before closing in again.

It was a warning shot, a test; an escape, should J.J. choose to take it.

Despite the torment J.J. had wrought, Viktor _wasn’t_ a killer. He was a Prince – a monarch, a _leader_ – and he knew the power of mercy.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for J.J.

In response, The Hunter had only doubled-down on his brutality, coming after Viktor with a series of high slashes. He caught Viktor’s arms with a few shallow cuts, and ended with a feint; distracting from his true target: The Prince’s calf.

Viktor roared.

A deep line of red opened along The Prince's left leg, sending him limping for respite.

Yuuri held his breath. Despite how evenly matched they were, Viktor was in far worse shape; stiff from his previous wounds and exhausted from fending off J.J.’s eager blade with nothing but his beastly claws – while his own non-lethal approach left the Hunter practically unscathed.

Viktor was getting tired; Yuuri could tell. In a fit of desperation, the Prince leapt for a tackle, trying to end the bout; but J.J. easily side-stepped, opening a gash along Viktor’s side as The Prince passed by – like matador flourishing his bloody cape.

A small whine made Yuuri jump.

“M-makkachin!” He gasped, “What are you –? How did you –?”

The dog-stool had found her way up to Viktor’s suite; apparently hiding from the invaders.

She whined again, pawing at the marble rail, as if doing so might somehow forge a path from her to Viktor.

Yuuri took one last look across the grounds; a smoggy portrait of smoke and ruin.

His expression became grim with determination.

The Dancer spun on his heel, marching for the chamber doors.

If Viktor wasn’t going to stay inside, then _neither was he_.

‘The Beast’ wasn’t the _only_ one J.J. had underestimated; and Yuuri was going to go down there and prove it.

 

*****

 

The stony basement enveloped Phichit in darkness.

Orange torches spat smoldering light onto unyielding walls as The Inventor crept along the shrouded passage.

Adrenaline sang through his veins; he could still hear the roar of battle overhead.

“Down the stairs, then to the left. Down the stairs, then to the left. Down the –” Phichit repeated the words like a mantra, even as he followed their directive, “– stairs, then to the left. Down the stairs, then to the left. Down the stairs, then to the –”

_‘CLANG!’_

Phichit stopped dead in his tracks.

What in the world –?

_SCREEEEEEE – ting, ting, CLANG!’_

“Mickey! Stop struggling! You’re going to make it worse! Just give me a second to –”

“THERE’S NO TIME! GET ME OFF A’ THIS THING! SHE’S IN DANGER! I KNOW IT!”

Phichit furrowed his brow.

. . . ‘ _Mickey_ ’?

Where had he heard that name bef–?

“DON’T WORRY, SARA! I’M COMING FOR YOU! JUST HANG ON A LITTLE –”

 _Oh,_ right!

Phichit’s racing feet propelled him down the hall.

 _Mickey_ \- Sara’s _brother_! The Chevaliers! _Of course_!

But where were–?

_‘Ting!’_

“AHHH!”

_‘THUD!’_

Phichit tripped over a couple of rickety boards, scraping his knees as he slid to a stop on the worn-out runner below.

“WHAT WAS THAT? WHO THE HELL ARE YOU? VACATE THIS CASTLE IMMEDIATELY, _INVADER_ , OR I SHALL–!”

Phichit looked around wildly in search of the voice, before realizing that it was, in fact, coming from one of the boards he’d just tripped over.

_“. . . Our Chevaliers are currently indisposed”_

_“They’re pinned to the wall”_

_“Stuck tight”_

_“Like paintings!”_

Oh, _right_!

 _Shit_!

But then . . . then shouldn’t they be up on the wall? Not laying on the floor where just _anyone_ could trip over them?

Unless . . .

Phichit scrabbled across the runner on his hands and knees, flipping the planks upright and propping them against the wall. A roaring shield struggled against a backdrop of plum, while a gilded longsword sighed against teal.

“You!” Phichit yelped, “You’re Sara’s brother! You’re the Chevaliers!”

The grumpy shield was undoubtedly the dainty fan’s twin; even as inanimate objects, the resemblance was uncanny.

“YOU KNOW OF MY SARA? HOW?” The Shield demanded, “IF YOU’VE LAID SO MUCH AS A FINGER ON HER, I _SWEAR_ –”

“ _The Castle is under attack_!” Phichit interrupted, “Sara’s safe, but _we need your help_!”

The Chevaliers fell silent; The Shield’s eyes went wide, as if he hadn’t _actually_ expected the situation to be _quite_ so dire.

“Ah,” The Longsword replied at last, “That would explain why we’ve come unstuck, then?”

The Shield’s lip quivered, “HANG ON, SARA!” he hollered, “YOUR BROTHER IS COMING TO SAVE YOU!”

The plum-coloured plank rocked and rattled as The Shield struggled to free himself.

“Don’t mind him. He’s been at it for _ages_ now . . .” The Longsword sighed, “Ah, but pardon my manners. Emil Nekola, Chevalier. At your service, Monsieur –?”

“Phichit. Chulanont. Yuuri’s brother,” The Inventor explained absently; lost in thought as his methodical brain slowly whirred to life.

His gaze was telescopic; sharp and precise as he looked between The Longsword and Shield, properly taking stock of his surroundings for the first time. In the gloom, he could just barely discern the forms of several other weapons, all mounted on colourful placards and affixed to the walls of the dark, dismal corridor. There were Maces and Battleaxes and Broadswords and War Hammers – even a Trident or two – all watching on in terse, mournful silence.

 _The other Chevaliers_ ; a whole _army_ of them.

Phichit bit his lip; if he could just find a way to set them loose . . .

He turned sharply back to Emil, “You two are the only ones who’ve come off the wall,” he accused, “Why? How did you get down? Tell me what happened the _exact instant_ you fell!”

The Longsword balked, but did as Phichit bid him, “W-we were asleep. Stuck to the wall, like always. Then, M-Mickey woke me. Said he heard something upstairs. An explosion, maybe? So we listened. There was some banging and some screaming – he _insisted_ he could hear Sara –”

“It WAS Sara!” The Shield petulantly objected.

“She’s fine – she’s been up on the second story with us this whole time,” Phichit interjected. He turned brusquely back to The Longsword, “then what?”

“Well, you know _Mickey_ . . .” Emil sighed, “after that, it was all ‘ _I-have-to-go-find-her_ ’ this and ‘ _get-me-off-the-wall_ ’ that . . . so I _gently_ reminded him that we were stuck – I said, ‘Mickey, we’re stuck’! And _he_ said: ‘I don’t care! I love Sara and I have to go save her and blah, blah, blah,’ – so then _I_ said: ‘Well, we’re stuck down here Mickey. Sara is plenty capable of holding her own – she’ll be safe with the others. I love them too, but we’re no help to them like this’ – and then, _POOF_! Next thing I know, we’re face-down on the ground and _Mickey is hitting me_!”

“WHO CARES?” The Shield hollered, “I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS! I’LL GO SAVE SARA MYSELF!”

The plum-coloured wall-mount warped and wiggled as The Shield tried to strut away; teetering on the placard like a pair of stilts.

“MICKEY! COME BACK!” Emil cried, clumsily clunking after his companion, “you’re going to get yourself –!”

“NO!” The Shield rounded on The Longsword, “I don’t care! I would do _anything_ to protect Sara – even if it means charging into battle like – like _this_! _She’s my sister, I love her more than life itself, and I refuse to_ –!”

_‘Screeeee-thud’._

The corridor fell deathly silent; a dozen eyes widened in disbelief.

None were wider than Mickey’s himself.

As he spoke, The Shield’s purple placard fell away of its own accord.

The plywood shackles of his 20-year prison now lay inert on the stony floor, harmless as a moth-eaten tapestry.

Emil gasped, reverent and awed, “M-Mickey! _How did you do that_?”

“I –” Michele sputtered, unsure where to look, “I don’t know. I –” 

“Love!” Phichit gasped, the answer hitting him like a ton of bricks, “it’s _love_ . . .”

The Longsword and Shield both turned to him with skeptical eyes.

“No! That’s it!” Phichit declared triumphantly, “It _has to be_!” he pushed himself to his feet, gleefully turning to the other weapons, “Don’t you see? _True Love_ can break the spell – it’s the only thing that will set _Viktor_ free, anyway . . . so why not all of you?”

A small, intrigued murmur bubbled through the basement.

“Just now, Mickey was declaring his love for Sara,” Phichit insisted, his heart racing like a destrier through no man’s land, “And his placard fell away – just like that! Mickey’s _loyalty_ , his _devotion_ – the love he has for his _family_ , his _friends_ , his _home_ – _that’s_ what set him free!”

Intrigued murmurs became doubtful rumblings as the Chevaliers tried to make sense of the situation.

Phichit worried his bottom lip; they didn’t have time to _debate_ damn it!

How could he convince them? How could he make them–?

A bright, brassy voice cut through the incredulous clamor.

“This castle has been my home for longer than I can remember,” Emil announced, “And I would consider it _my honor_ to defend it to the last . . . _with all the love in my heart_!”

Emil closed his eyes; Phichit held his breath.

 _‘Shhhhk-thud’_.

Just like that, the gilded Longsword was free.

A great, raucous roar rose up from the Chevaliers, as they each began to announce their own love in earnest; some declaring their devotion to family or friends or paramours – some pledging their loyalty to King and Country.

“Follow me! There’s no time to lose!” Mickey ordered, leading the legion of newly freed knights, “To protect those we love, we shall _rid_  The Castle of these invaders!”

The Chevaliers gave a collective cheer and set off after The Shield, screeching and clanging against the stone corridor like a tumbling tower of tin cans.

“You have our deepest gratitude, Monsieur Chulanont,” Emil bade, “We would be honoured for you to count the Chevaliers of Nikiforov Manor among your allies forever more”.

Phichit blushed right up to the tips of his ears, “Ah, T-thanks! It was n-nothing. Really!”

Emil smiled, “Well then, Monsieur Chulanont, I bid you adieu . . . can’t let Mickey have _all_ the fun, now can I?”

With a wink and a grin, The Longsword was gone.

Phichit heaved a sigh of relief; maybe he _wouldn’t_ be needing that black powder after all.

 

*****

 

Yuuri yelped; nearly tripping as marble steps shook underfoot.

Or perhaps, it was Yuuri himself who was wobbling; his addled mind mistakenly marking the staircase as the source of his trembling.

The roar of battle rose up from below; so loud, Yuuri could hardly think straight.

Presently, he was on the topmost step of the grand staircase; the flight which led to the West Wing and Viktor’s royal chambers.

This was a problem, as Yuuri didn’t _need_ to be on the topmost step of the grand staircase; he _needed_ to be out front on the promenade, fighting alongside the man he loved.

He very nearly smiled, remembering that Viktor loved him back.

Unfortunately, between himself and the man he loved, lay a bizarre and bitter battle, raging ever onward in the foyer below.

Yuuri’s eyes darted from the foot of the stairs to the battered doorway, scoping out a way through the calamity.

The battle ebbed and flowed like the tide; one moment, The Staff had The Villagers overwhelmed, and the next, The Villagers were hacking their way past the infantile resistance.

At the moment, things seemed to have taken a turn for the worse; Mr. Baker was currently leading the Doctor, Butcher and School Master in a charge to tip Georgi over on his side, while Yakov and Otabek had been hemmed into a corner by Theo and his father. A great fit of sneezes spewed forth from The Chaplain, who had been plucking Masumi’s feathers and now had a snout-full of dust for his trouble.

Dread plucked at Yuuri’s heart strings; he had to get to Viktor _now_ , before –

Suddenly, the blood in his veins turned to ice.

There in the doorway stood Stephan Boucher and Damien Dupont; The Meathead brandished a stout, steely firearm, while The Snarky Teen wielded a slim, pewter sword.

The Hunters glowered at one another; scanning the rioters, almost as if they were  _looking_ for something.

Yuuri bit his lip; he had to get out of here – _fast_!

A brassy crash landing to his left sent Yuuri ducking for cover.

“HEY! NO FAIR! _HONK, HONK, HONK_! NO THROWING ALLOWED!”

“Minami!” Yuuri cried, “What happened? Are you hurt?”

He gingerly scooped the little horn up into his arms.

“OH, HI YUURI!” Minami cried, enthusiastic as ever, “Yea, I’m _fine_! Did you SEE that Barkeeper guy THROW me though? That’s DEFINITELY cheating, right?”

Yuuri cast Minami a fond smile; but despite the little horn’s vigor, he could tell that The Herald was in rough shape. Minami's brassy body was riddled with dents and the gold stitching of his flag was starting to unravel.

“ _HEY! I SEE HIM! UP THERE_!”

Damien’s voice cut through the ripening battle like a paring knife.

Yuuri quickly peeked through the banisters; to his horror, the young hunter was pointing directly at _him_.

Stephan locked eyes with his target, pushing through the fray and heading for the stairs.

“Yuuri! They’re after you!" Minami yelped. "Quick! This way!” he hissed, urging Yuuri back down the hall from which he’d just come.

“I can’t!” Yuuri objected, “I have to get to Viktor! He’s out front fighting J.J. _right now_!”

“ _WHAT_?!” Minami demanded; his little brass features coalescing into a portrait of betrayal, “ _But he was supposed to stay inside_!”

_‘KA-POW!’_

White plaster pelted Yuuri like a snowball.

“Heh, heh, _got you now, Playboy_ . . .”

Before them on the center landing stood Stephan Boucher, and he was brandishing a _blunderbuss_ – one which had just blown a hole in the wall to Yuuri’s left.

“Tha’s just a warning shot,” The Meathead announced, “So don’t go doing anything stupid now. You’ve caused enough troub–”

“ _Mercy’s sake_ , Boucher!” Damien hollered, sliding to a stop beside his buddy, “Just grab ‘im already!”

Yuuri scrambled backwards on the slippery tile, desperately hauling himself to his feet.

“Yuuri! The Ballroom!” Minami whispered, “Get out onto the veranda and go around! Hurry! I’ll distract them!”

Then the world became a blur.

“HEY DUMMY! WHY DON’T YOU PICK ON SOME ONE YOUR OWN SIZE?”

“MINAMI, NO!”

The little horn leapt from Yuuri’s arms, honking loud enough to wake the dead. He sailed through the air, from the top step of the staircase down to the center landing, trumpeting all the way.

Damien flinched and covered his ears; dropping his rapier as he did so.

But Stephan remained unmoved. With one meaty fist, he reached up and snatched Minami right out of the air; carelessly tossing him aside, as if he were nothing but trash in the wind. With a yelp of surprise, Minami tumbled the rest of the way down the staircase.

Yuuri raced to the railing.

“MINAMI! _MINAMI_!”

Despite his cries, he lost sight of The Herald in the chaos below.

A sharp tug on his arm had him hissing in pain.

With a grouchy huff, Stephan dragged Yuuri down the stairs; holding him ever-so-slightly up off the ground, so that The Dancer’s feet merely grazed the marble beneath.

Yuuri’s survival instincts kicked into high-gear, and he thrashed against Stephan’s grasp.

“ _Let_! _Me_! _Go_!” Yuuri grunted, launching a sharp kick at Stephan’s shin.

“ _Hey_!”

The kick didn’t hurt, but it startled Stephan enough to loosen his hold on Yuuri, who took the opportunity to yank himself free.

Unfortunately, Damien was ready.

As Yuuri tried to make a run for it, the young hunter leapt for him. Damien managed to catch a fist-full of Yuuri’s waistcoat, and with one sharp jerk, he had his arms locked around the dancer; binding Yuuri’s own arms to his sides.

With great difficulty, Damien swung his squirming charge back around to face The Meathead.

“Boucher!” Damien puffed, “ _little help_?”

Yuuri fought to free himself, but Damien simply manoeuvred him into a firmer hold – locking his lanky arms around Yuuri’s own; leaving The Dancer defenceless and exposed.

Stephan’s smirk became positively wicked.

“Nighty-night, _Playboy_ . . .”

The Meathead wound up to strike – one massive fist raised high in the air; packing a blow that would knock him out cold.

Yuuri closed his eyes and braced for impact.

_‘KA-THUNK!’_

“ _AUUUUGH_!”

Stephan roared in pain.

“OW! _What the fuck_? I think you  _broke_ my _fucking fingers_ –”

Yuuri’s eyes snapped open; a silver shield emblazoned with amethyst stones and a black lacquer lion had placed itself between him and The Meathead.

“GOOD!” Michele cried, “I’LL BREAK MORE THAN THAT IF YOU LINGER, CRETIN!”

“M- _Mickey_?”

“YEOW! HEY!”

Yuuri stumbled forward, released by Damien as the young hunter yelped in pain. On his other side, Yuuri could just make out the presence of a gilded Longsword.

“Take _that_! And _that_! And some more of _that_!” Emil cried, smacking Damien smartly on the rear with the flat of his blade, “Run along home to your _mommy_ , now! Looks to me like it’s _well past_ your bedtime!”

Yuuri breathed a sigh of relief as the enchanted weapons flanked him, keeping The Hunters – for the moment – at bay.

“Mickey! Emil! But how did you –? How can you be –?” Yuuri panted, “ _Mercy,_ am I ever glad to see you!”

The Longsword grinned, “I assure you, the pleasure is all _ours_ , Monsieur! Emil Nekola, Chevalier, at your service!”

“Michele Crispino, Chevalier, at your service!” The Shield proudly echoed, “And you should know, _your brother_ is the one to thank for –”

“MICKEY, LOOK OUT!”

_‘CLANG!’_

Rather than re-load his blunderbuss, Stephan had taken a page from Isabella Yang’s book; swinging his firearm like a club in an attempt to catch the trio off-guard.

Mickey easily absorbed the impact, disengaging with a sharp shunt to the left.

“I DARE YOU TO TRY THAT AGAIN, BLAGGARD!” The Shield cried.

The Longsword cheered, “Haha! _Nice one_ , Mickey!”

“EMIL! ON YOUR LEFT!”

Damien had gathered up his rapier; lunging past the Longsword to thrust at Yuuri.

The Dancer easily slid out of the way, but Damien’s goal was to distract – not to wound – and in that regard, he was entirely successful.

Despite his grungy exterior, Damien was clever; he baited the Longsword, drawing Emil further and further away from his charge with every shallow feint and thrust. The Chevalier gave chase, attempting to dispatch his opponent quickly; but the two blades were unevenly matched – with Emil too slow and Damien’s rapier too slight – drawing out the engagement and giving _Stephan_ the opening he needed.

“YUURI! GET DOWN!”

The Dancer did as Michele commanded, ducking just in time to avoid Stephan’s grapple.

With a bloodthirsty roar, The Shield wound up and rammed into Stephan; tackling him to the ground and breaking his nose in the process.

“YUURI! GO!” Emil hollered, caging Damian in at the edge of the landing, “Find the Prince! Get somewhere safe!”

“WE’LL HOLD THEM OFF!” Michele agreed, trying with all his might to keep The Meathead pinned.

Yuuri didn’t hesitate; he bolted up the stairs on the far side of the landing, toward the Eastern Suite, and the Ballroom Balcony beyond.

 

*****

 

Pebbles crunched underfoot as J.J. stalked toward his quarry.

“So, _Beast_ , have you had _enough_ , yet?”

Viktor panted, one paw pressed to the new gash in his left side. He knelt on the unyielding flagstone promenade, desperately heaving for breath.

“Please say ‘ _no_ ’,” The Hunter goaded, “I’m really quite enjoying this –”

The Prince cursed his impatience. That leap had been reckless – impulsive – and now he was paying for it.

But he wasn’t finished. Not yet. Not by a long shot.

So long as Yuuri was waiting for him, he could fight as long as he needed to.

Viktor carefully watched the shadows shifting underfoot; J.J. was practically on top of him now, mortuary sword raised high.

The Hunter’s blade descended for a killing blow, but Viktor was quicker.

He caught J.J.’s weapon with both paws; the true edge of the blade digging into the soft pads of his enormous, beastly hands.

Viktor just held on tighter; rising to his feet as he forced the sword up and away. The pain paled in comparison to the knowledge of what would happen if he failed.

The Hunter did not yield; continuing to press toward The Prince. They were locked in a stalemate now, each braced against the other in a pure show of strength.

Slowly, Viktor gained ground, pushing back and back and back in an attempt to disarm The Hunter.

J.J.’s heels slid an inch apart, scraping along the stone. For one brief moment, panic flickered in his eyes.

Then, panic turned to inspiration.

With his free hand, J.J. reached for his bandolier, swiftly drawing another pistol.

“I . . . have you beat now . . . monster!” J.J. declared.

To The Prince’s horror, The Hunter was right.

Viktor could either continue to grapple J.J.’s blade, leaving himself open to a point-blank shot to the chest; or he could try to dodge the pistol by disengaging the sword, only to give The Hunter a new opening to target.

The Prince cursed under his breath – blood soaked his side, dripped down his calf, littered his shirt like rouge-kissed raindrops – and he was all out of ideas.

With a wicked grin, J.J. cocked his pistol.

“Any . . . last . . . words?” The Hunter bit out; voice cracking like dried-out chicken bones.

Viktor just growled; refusing to give an inch.

He wouldn’t flag, wouldn’t falter, wouldn’t give J.J. the satisfac–”

“. . . Well, if _he’s_  not going to say anything, then  _allow me_!”

The night air sang as another sword entered the fray; a sabre, wielded by none other than Isabella Yang.

“I happen to have some _choice_ words for you myself, _jackass_!”

The Prince and The Hunter sprang apart as The Huntress’ blade sailed between them.

“I-Isabella?” The Hunter cried, “ _What the hell are you_ –?”

“Sorry to _interrupt_ , J.J.,” Isabella quipped, “but you and I have some _unfinished business_ –”

A chorus of whinnies rang out across the cobbles; a thundering of hooves spilled over the estate like waves breaking on the shore.

“Oh,” Isabella continued, “and I brought some _friends_ along. _Hope you don’t mind_ ”.

Viktor nearly sobbed in relief as a regiment of Town Guards charged through on horseback, heading for the Musketeers and the Castle beyond. Two others slowed their steeds to a stop on either side of Isabella.

“C-Captian?” J.J. gasped, “ _Marcel_? So _THAT’S_ where you ran off to! And here I thought you were  _hiding in a corner_ somewhere – like the _coward_ you are!”

“Well J.J.,” Marcel replied, slipping from his steed, “seems you and I have very _different_ definitions of the word, ‘ _coward_ ’”.

To punctuate his point, he drew a serrated hunting knife from the scabbard strapped strapped to his back; a collection of slim silver throwing knives glittered on his belt.

“Jean Jacques Leroy, your attack on Nikiforov Manor has been _disavowed_!” The Guard Captain proclaimed. His face was illuminated by a simple lantern, held aloft like a guiding light on stormy seas, “Surrender _now_ and I –”

“Sorry Captain, no can do,” J.J. sneered, “I came here for Yuuri . . . and I’m not leaving without him”.

“Don’t be an idiot!” Isabella snapped, “It’s _over_ J.J. . . . I don’t want to hurt you, _but I will_ if I have to”.

J.J.’s stony visage turned cruel, “As if you could,” he spat, glaring at his former best friend, “You really think you can win with _half-a-dozen rookies_ , a _soft old man_ and a _sappy coward_? Don’t make me laugh –”

Isabella armed herself with fury and wreathed herself in regret, “I didn’t come here to make you _laugh_ , J.J.” she warned, “I came here to make you _beg for mercy_ ”.

The Huntress sprang to life, her sabre tracing an arc of molten metal through the sparse, flickering torchlight.

Steel rang against steel as J.J. gracefully parried her swing; quickly sliding forward to bind her sword with his own.

“You sure you want to do this, Yang?” he growled, “I won’t go easy on you, just because we _used to be_ friends”.

Isabella smirked, “Hey, J.J. . . . how’s your _nose_?”

J.J. opened his mouth to retort, but Isabella seized the momentary distraction to hook his knee with her own boot; sending him sprawling against the pavement with a shove.

The pistol fell from his hand, skittering across the promenade.

“Go!” Isabella cried, turning to the others, “Get the mob under control. I’ll take care of _him_ –”

Viktor looked to the villagers; vaguely recalling both faces from his earlier adventure in town.

“I have to get to Yuuri,” The Prince panted, “Upstairs. He’s waiting. They’re after him –”

A wave of nausea had Viktor seeing stars.

“Who is?” the dusky hunter – Marcel – demanded.

“Your – ugh – fellows,” Viktor replied, woozy and exhausted, “The . . . the big one and the skinny kid . . . J.J. sent them in–”

Marcel frowned, “Boucher and Dupont –”

“Then, we need to find Yuuri _NOW_ ,” The Captain urged.

The trio turned towards The Castle, only to discover a line of grim-faced Musketeers blocking their path.

All across the castle grounds, Marchand’s men were locked in combat with the remaining officers, who were struggling to restore order. Officer Javier was dueling an enormous brute in tandem with Officer Yelyzaveta, while two more musketeers had ganged up on Officer Lee. Sergeant Tsubaki was surrounded by three more, fending them off with an efficacy and intensity which only came from years of combat experience. Officers Aditi and Amar were nowhere to be seen.

With the Officers outmatched, the remaining Musketeers had regrouped, focusing their attention back on The Beast; ready to fire any moment.

Viktor gazed across the smouldering hellscape of his estate; his spirit shattering to pieces.

 _How had everything gone so wrong_?

Beside him, Marcel and The Captain nattered on; barely audible above the din.

“What do we do?”

“How do we get past?”

“Maybe if we –”

The Prince’s gaze wandered up to the balcony of his Royal Suite, to re-assure himself that his beloved was still safe and soothe his aching heart.

But when he looked up, Yuuri wasn’t there.

The bloodthirsty roar Viktor let loose then tore the earth asunder.

He lowered himself onto all fours and charged at the human barricade, ignoring the red-hot flashes of pain flaring up on his calf.

With a yelp, The Captain took off after him, hoping to break through the line in the Beast’s wake.

“I guess that’s one way to do it,” Marcel muttered, following all the same.

Viktor roared again as he neared the blockade. A few premature shots rang out, missing their mark by a league. Even so, Viktor did not slow; he merely braced himself for impact.

Startled musketeers stumbled aside as The Prince forced his way through, knocking a few flat on their backs with his nightmarish horns.

“YUURI! HANG ON! _I’M COMING YUU-_!”

Viktor’s cry was strangled as a lasso of scratchy rope caught around his neck.

He ground to a screeching halt; dragged back against the abrasive flagstones, as Marcel and the Captain tumbled forward, weaving between his beastly limbs.

Viktor sputtered but held firm, pulling forward against the weight around his neck. His newfound allies skid to a stop, turning back to free him.

“No time! _Find Yuuri_!” The Prince commanded.

The Captain hesitated a moment or two before complying, but Marcel just nodded and raced on towards the Castle.

Another rope looped its way around one of Viktor’s horns, tugging his head painfully to the side.

With a ferocious growl, Viktor turned back to the musketeers; it seemed they had _strategized_ after their first encounter with ‘The Beast’.

Slowly, The Prince stood to his full height, took both ropes in each of his bloody paws and _yanked_ ; sweeping his would-be captors right off their feet.

Razor-sharp talons turned nylon into confetti; the ropes fell away.

More immediately took their place.

Viktor decimated those too; and the next, and the next – dodging what he could and destroying what he could not.

More gunfire. More ropes. More yelling. Wave after wave, endless and eternal, until it was all Viktor could do to keep up.

But he couldn’t stop now; couldn’t flag, couldn’t falter, couldn’t fail –

He’d made a promise to his beloved – and, come hell or high water, _he was going to keep it_.

 

*****

 

Yuuri raced down the gilded hall towards the ballroom balcony; tracing the same path he’d taken to dance practice every day since he'd started calling The Castle 'home'.

That all felt like a lifetime ago.

Yuuri’s leather shoes slid as he took the turn too sharply, sending him crashing against the wall.

_‘Oof-THUD!’_

“Damn it! I’m coming, Viktor!” Yuuri panted, “I’m coming –”

Without a second thought, Yuuri sprinted onward; his heart pounding harder than ever before.

He had to find Viktor; had to see him, had to reach him –

Had to say ‘I love you’.

Had to say it _back_.

 _Twice_ now Viktor had said it; only minutes ago on the balcony, and once in town, when his Prince had come to rescue him.

 _“Don’t do this, Yuuri!_   _I love you too much to let you throw your life away_ _!”_

Viktor’s words echoed through his memory as Yuuri burst through rich crimson curtains and onto the ballroom balcony. Only days ago, he’d stood in this very spot with Minami, stomach full of butterflies, waiting to be announced as Viktor’s escort to the Winter Celebration Ball.

The Dancer cursed his anxiety and stilted tongue; he loved Viktor more than he’d ever known was possible – so how had he _still not said it_ yet?

 _“I’ll always come back to you, Yuuri_ _. . . because I love you”._

The Dancer no longer had to wonder about the meaning behind the words 'Lyubov Moya'.

He tore along the balcony, anxious and alert; but the ballroom was surprisingly empty. Only Leo and the other musicians remained, keeping watch over the back door.

The others must have all rushed to aid the staff at the front.

Yuuri leapt down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Leo! Lilia! Look out!” Yuuri called, “I have to get through!”

With a jolt, the harpsichord slid away from the door.

“What’s happening?” Seung-Gil barked; his normal stoicism laced with a sharp, almost desperate edge, “are we winning?”

“Uh – I don’t know,” Yuuri confessed, crossing the vast expanse of polished wood, “I have to find Viktor, he –”

“ _He left his chambers_?” Lilia demanded.

“Ugh, _of course_ he did,” Seung-Gil huffed.

“Th-this is bad,” Leo whinged, “ _really bad_!”

“You think?” Seung-Gil replied sardonically.

“YUURI! BEHIND YOU!”

But Guang Hong’s warning came too late. One meaty fist wrapped around the back of Yuuri’s collar, yanking The Dancer back with a strangled gasp.

“YUURI!”

“NO!”

“LET HIM GO!”

_‘CLANG TWANG SCREE SNAP!’_

This time, Stephan didn’t leave any room for error; immediately hoisting Yuuri right up over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, despite his injured hand.

Yuuri whacked ineffectively at the behemoth’s back; his legs flailed, trying to free himself, but Boucher just wrapped one thuggish arm around them, pinning both down.

“Where’s Mickey?” Yuuri demanded, still squirming, “Where's Emil? What did you do to –?”

“MERCY’S FLAMING ASSHOLE, BOUCHER!”

Damien’s voice thundered down from the balcony, frazzled and furious, “way to _ditch me_ , you fucking prick! Leaving me to deal with those _freaks_ all alone - I nearly got my mercy-forsaken head chopped off!”

Stephan shrugged, swaying Yuuri on his shoulder, “Whad? Should I’ve led Pwayboy here ged away?” he challenged; voice stuffy as it filtered through his broken nose.

Damien glowered; both hunters completely ignoring the aforementioned ‘Playboy’, currently straining against Stephan’s hold.

The Meathead rolled his eyes, “look, J.J. said ‘ _ged Yuuwi_ ’, he didn’ say ‘ _hang aroud and ged your ass kicked by magic shit_ ’. Nod my fauld you couldn’ keep up”.

Damien sneered, sheathing his rapier, “You know, there’s a _reason_ everyone fucking hates you, Boucher”.

“Whadever,” Stephan laughed, “Le’ss get outta here, I’m sick of dis pla–”

“Hey, shut up –” Damien snapped, “you hear that?”

The Hunters stood still; waiting, listening. Yuuri propped himself up as best he could, hoping to hear as well.

_‘Tick-tick-tick-tick, tick-tick-tick-tick'._

“What is that?” Damien hissed, “a clock?”

Yuuri’s breath caught in his throat; he knew that sound _intimately_ – and it wasn’t a _clock_ , it was a –

_‘ZING! ZING-ZING, ZING-ZING!’_

– _metronome_.

Yuuri clapped his hands over his ears as the third movement of Harpsichord Concerto Number 1 in E major thundered through the ballroom, consuming The Castle with noise.

“LOUDER!” Lilia ordered, conducting the band over their own ruckus, “ _LOUDER_ I SAID! YOU’RE GIVING ME _FORTE_ , WHEN YOU SHOULD BE GIVING ME _FORTISSISSIMO_!

_‘ZING! ZING-ZING, ZING-ZING!’_

_‘CLANG TWANG SCREE SNAP!’_

“WHAT THE HELL?”

Yuuri didn’t have a much better idea than The Hunters; but a distraction was a distraction, and he was more than grateful to have it.

Stephan didn’t have a free hand to cover his own ears and drown out the music, so instead scrunched his eyes shut in petulant frustration.

The two hunters hollered at one another above the music; becoming more infuriated by the second as they fought to communicate through the unearthly clamour.

But no matter how hard Yuuri struggled, Stephan’s grip held firm.

The familiar vice of a panic attack lurked between Yuuri’s ribs; knowing that his Prince couldn’t possibly hold out much longer.

 

*****

 

“ _What in the Seven Hells_ –?”

Captain Nishigori gazed around The Castle foyer in complete and utter disbelief.

The Villagers were waging an all-out war against . . . fine china?

The Chaplain was trying to free his own head from a bucket, as a furious candelabrum singed the hem of his robes. Mr. Miller and his son, Theo, were being chased by a letter opener and a fleet of butcher’s knives – and over in the corner, a redwood mantle clock somehow had Louis Dubois in tears.

Right out front by the broken doors, a wardrobe had fallen over onto its side, pinning three hapless villagers beneath it. That self-same wardrobe wailed in pain, as a gilded longsword had been thrust straight through its wooden panelling, pinning a silver shield in place by its straps.

Other living weapons whizzed about, rounding up The Villagers and staunchly forcing their surrender. A trident and a pitchfork had apparently teamed up to intimidate the town Doctor, whose face was redder than a cherry tomato.

Among the writhing masses were Officers Aditi and Amar, who had – apparently – made their way inside, and were now having an animated exchange with a sentient Battleaxe; though whether the conversation was argumentative or cooperative in nature, Nishigori had no idea.

No one seemed to be fatally wounded, however, which The Captain could only count as a win.

“I don’t see Boucher or Dupont,” Marcel murmured.

“Or Yuuri,” Nishigori agreed, “what do we –?”

_‘ZING! ZING-ZING, ZING-ZING!’_

Both Marcel and The Captain jumped.

The sound of a very desperate harpsichord concerto flooded into the foyer; causing the battle to settle for only a second, before revving up again in earnest. 

“Follow the music?” Marcel suggested, casting The Captain an incredulous look.

_‘ZING! ZING-ZING, ZING-ZING!’_

_‘CLANG TWANG SCREE SNAP!’_

“Follow the music _immediately_ ,” Nishigori amended.

Marcel nodded, pushing his way through the riot, with Nishigori nipping at his heels.

 

*****

 

Out on the promenade, Isabella and J.J. circled one another, both ready and poised to strike.

They’d sparred countless times over the years, but this was the first time Isabella had ever aimed to kill.

It was hard to refute the impulse to show mercy; especially when the mask of the monster so resembled the face of the man she'd loved.

But the person before her now - this _villain_ ; this _thing_ \- wasn’t J.J.; and hadn't been for a very long time.

She baited him into making the first attack.

The Hunter went for her left with a downward slash; typical.

J.J. was so predictable.

She raised her guard; J.J.’s mortuary sword met her sabre, and was punished with a quick parry and reposte.

J.J. hissed as her blade caught the sleeve of his emerald green jacket; not sharp enough to cut, but fierce enough to threaten.

The Hunter retreated, for the moment disengaging.

“So . . . this is really how it’s going to be?” J.J. drawled, searching for his opening.

He was trying to distract her. It wouldn’t work.

Isabella lunged forward with a feint, but J.J. didn’t fall for her trap; shunting her blade off with a quick flick of the wrist.

She came right back with and upward slash; knocking J.J.’s blade out of the way.

For one brief, fleeting second, his entire torso was exposed.

She swung for his chest and he dodged, coming back with another downward slash; this one right over her head.

Isabella raised her sabre to block him.

The Hunter pressed on, trying to make her yield, like he had with The Beast – but she was ready for him. She stepped in closer, with a swift knee to the gut.

J.J. crumpled, breathless in shock, and Isabella pushed his sword sharply aside.

“I guess . . . that _is_ . . . how it’s going to be,” He panted, finding his footing once again, “why am I not surprised?”

Isabella glared, “what’s _that_ supposed to mean?” she demanded.

J.J. slashed at her again – an upward cross – so quick, she almost didn’t parry in time.

The Hunter came at her again, over and over as he spoke, “You never liked Yuuri,” he accused, “never wanted us to – ugh – be together. Never wanted me to marry him –”

Isabella was stunned into silence; drawn sharply back to reality only when she missed a parry and J.J.’s blade grazed her knuckles.

She quickly retaliated with a thrust which caught J.J. in the side.

The emerald green jacket split open, torn edges trimmed in red.

“Gah!”

J.J.’s little yelp of pain very nearly surprised her; for so long, this man had been her _everything_ . . . she’d almost forgotten that even a Hunter could bleed.

Isabella advanced on her foe, feinting high and striking low, cutting stripes of red into J.J.’s dark green trousers to match his emerald jacket.

“You’re right . . . I _didn’t_!” she snapped, aiming once again to disarm, “And if you _ever fucking listened to me_ , you might _actually_ know - ugh - _why_!”

Her sword met his, over and over again as Isabella forced The Hunter back.

“Everything always has to be about you, _doesn’t it, J.J._?”

_‘TING!’_

“I want this –”

_‘SCHWING!’_

“I want that –”

_‘CLANG!’_

“I feel sad –”

With a sharp shove, Isabella unbalanced J.J., forcing him to lurch backward and lose his stance.

“Nothing else ever mattered – not even me!” She accused, “I’m your _best friend_ , and you didn’t – you _couldn’t_ see what your _selfishness_  was doing to me –”

J.J. charged at her with a slash to the side; Isabella parried with a turn, redirecting The Hunter’s momentum and sending him stumbling.

“Or . . . if you could,” she panted, “ _you just didn’t care_  ”.

J.J. faced The Huntress with eyes full of anguish.

Just then, a deafening war cry from The Castle made both swordsmen jump.

Marchand’s Men were sent scattering as a new wave of infantry took to the field.

Isabella could hardy believe her eyes.

It seemed to be a legion of ghosts; Maces and Broadswords and Battleaxes and War Hammers, all attacking the Musketeers of their own accord . . .

 

*****

 

_‘ZING! ZING-ZING, ZING-ZING! ZING, ZING, ZING, ZING, ZING!’_

The band played on as Yuuri fought to free himself from the behemoth that was Stephan Boucher.

Damien threw his hands up in frustration and grabbed a fist-full of Stephan’s shirt, turning to storm back up the stairs and out of the ballroom.

He immediately tripped over a polished wooden bow.

Moments later, a cello appeared to claim it; winding up to smack Damien on the back of the head with it like a cricket bat.

“ _YEOW_!”

Yuuri twisted to see what was happening.

“S-Seung-Gil!” he cried, “B-be care-careful!”

“SHUD ID!” Stephan bellowed, giving Yuuri a shake. The Dancer vibrated with anxiety, managing to free one of his legs just enough to give The Meathead a good knee to the gut.

Suddenly, a little viola appeared in front of Yuuri’s face; just outside Stephan’s periphery.

Now, only Leo played, but he was louder than ever.

_‘ZING-TWANG, ZING-CLANG, ZING-SCREE, ZING-SNAP!’_

“Guang Hong!” Yuuri cried, “Please! I have to –”

“Don’t worry!” Guang Hong hollered, “Someone will hear the music soon and come help! It’s a signal –”

“HEY!”

Stephan whipped around, slapping the viola to the ground.

But Guang Hong quickly shook it off, raising his own bow to slap at Stephan’s hands like a willow switch.

Before he even made contact, The Meathead was screaming in agony. 

“ _AUUUUUUUUGH_! MERCY’S FLAMING ASSHOLE!”

The ballroom was silent, save for Stephan’s roar of pain; he released Yuuri, who fell to the floor with a yelp.

The Meathead flailed; cursing and stumbling about as he sought the source of his sudden distress.

“SHIT! FUCK! SHIT! FUCKIN' MERCY'S TIT! AUUUGH!”

“Boucher,” a velvety voice greeted, “classy as always, I see”.

Then, there wasn’t a sound.

All eyes turned to the new challenger.

There, at the edge of the dance floor stood Marcel Durand, brandishing a serrated hunting knife – and right behind him was none other than Guard Captain Nishigori Takeshi, with a sturdy, standard-issue officer’s sabre sheathed at his hip and a simple glass lantern held high in the air.

Stephan sneered down at the slim silver throwing knife currently lodged in his fleshy right buttock.

It matched the five others on Marcel’s belt.

Yuuri’s eyes went wide; slowly, carefully, he slid himself across the polished floor with trembling fingertips – giving Stephan a wide birth. Likewise, the musicians ducked out of the fray.

“ _DURAND_ ,” The Meathead growled, “ _you slimy prick_ –”

“Yea! _What the hell_ , Durand?” Damien barked, finally picking himself up off the ground.

Marcel shrugged, “I could ask you two the same thing”.

“Dupont, Bourcher - J.J.'s actions have been disavowed! Stand down _now_  and you won't face any further consequences!” Nishigori proclaimed, “Surrender your weapons! I _won’t_  ask you again!”

Stephan sized them up with all the quiet fury of a feral dog.

He reached down, dislodging Marcel’s knife with one swift tug; not even flinching as it pulled against his skin.

The bloody knife clattered uselessly to the ground.

 

*****

 

_Slash the ropes._

_Scatter the men._

_Get to Yuuri._

_Slash the ropes._

_Scatter the men._

_Get to Yuuri._

_Slash the –_

Viktor rounded on the musketeers with a growl; _mercy’s flaming asshole_ – how many more ropes did these people _have_?

The cuts in his paw pads throbbed as he yanked another lasso free.

The Prince had managed to stay standing through sheer force of will; even managing to gain a bit of ground as he dragged the infantry forward by their own sinewy shackles.

But it wasn’t enough; not _nearly_.

Not when Yuuri was all alone; trapped in a castle under siege with J.J.’s two best men after him.

Viktor didn’t know much about The Captain and Marcel, but could only hope they were as honorable as they seemed; and skilled enough to keep his beloved safe until he could reach them.

The Prince cursed himself once again; he never should have left Yuuri's side. 

A thunderous war cry drew his attention to The Castle doors.

He could hardly believe his eyes.

Spilling forth from the ruined entryway was a legion of living weapons.

They charged into battle fearlessly, led by a woman in the garb of a Village Officer.

Maces and Broadswords and Battleaxes and War Hammers bled over the castle grounds, advancing on J.J.’s infantry like wine spilled on linen.

The Prince instantly recognized them as The Chevaliers of Nikiforov Manor.

Viktor grinned in triumph; finally, his forces were no longer outnumbered!

He had no idea how the Chevaliers had freed themselves – his curiosity forgotten, as The Prince re-doubled his own efforts in earnest.

Viktor took a deep breath, and let loose an ear-splitting roar.

At long last, the Chevaliers spied their Prince; enveloping his attackers like a thunderstorm.

Viktor saw his opportunity and took it; bounding for The Castle, as his Chevaliers beat the musketeers back, leaving a trail of bloody paw prints in his wake.

 

*****

 

Anguish turned to hatred in J.J.’s eyes as he watched an easy victory slip from his grasp.

The next instant, a heavy pommel strike to the temple had Isabella seeing stars.

She hissed and teetered back, losing her stance.

J.J. saw his advantage and pressed it.

“You couldn’t just let me be _happy_ , could you?” he demanded, “had to _ruin_ everything, _didn’t you_?”

Isabella parried another slash; J.J.’s strike so fierce it vibrated her sabre and made her arm ache.

Torchlight danced all around, casting J.J. in muted hues of black and orange, melting his face into something monstrous as he pressed his attack.

“ _Didn’t you_?” he seethed.

_‘CLANG!’_

“Had to _doubt_ and _nit-pick_ and _nay-say_ and _sabotage_ me and _undermine my dreams!_ ”

_‘SCHWING!’_

“You _betrayed_ me back in The Village - and now, I could lose _everything_ , because of _you_!”

Isabella growled and took another swing at J.J.

Her aim was off; too high, bad timing.

J.J. parried and unbalanced her again; it was all she could to keep pace with his advances.

“I don’t know what I ever saw in you –” J.J. spat, his sword never once stilling, “ _You're_ the  _selfish_ one;  _two-faced_ and _spineless_ and _petty_! You were _never_  my  _friend_  ! You _never gave a damn about me_ –!”

Isabella short-circuited; she parried J.J.’s next blow, but her arm was limp, unresponsive, and The Hunter was able to bind her blade and twist it right out of her grip.

Her sabre flew across the promenade, skittering to a stop on the uncaring flagstones.

Her arm fell limply to her side.

Her mind went blank.

J.J. raised his sword for another slash.

“. . . _How can you say that_?”

Isabella’s voice was filled to the brim with heartbreak; her lip quivering in the gloom.

J.J. only snarled in response.

His sword began to descend.

“. . . I _loved_ you”.

When J.J.’s weapon struck, she felt the weight of the blow more than the bite of the blade itself.

Isabella managed to turn away; raising her left arm enough to shield her neck, her clavicle, her face – but her bicep took the full force of J.J.’s fury.

Friction cut through the fabric of her red hunting jacket like a rug-burn; her arm crumpled, smashing into her own ribs as she fell to the ground.

Her arm was warm.

Warm and wet and broken.

Just like her heart.

For a moment, she just lay there on the pavement, soaking in the cool relief of the stone; too shocked to remember how to move.

The shadows shifted as J.J. stood over her; she braced herself for whatever was to come.

“. . . _could have fooled me_ ”.

Then, J.J. was walking away.

Slowly, Isabella’s ribs started to flutter; nervous and giddy and incredulous.

Her lips spread into a grin and stared to quake.

Laughing.

She was _laughing_.

J.J. stopped in his tracks. He didn’t turn around.

“Mercy’s sake,” he spat, “Have some _dignity_ , Yang–”

Isabella slid on the flagstones, slowly tucking in her knees and propping herself up on her good arm.

“Yuuri was right”.

“What?”

“Yuuri was _right_ . . .”

“About _what_?”

“You have _no idea_ . . . no _mercy-forsaken_ idea . . .”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Before Isabella knew what was happening, J.J. had hauled her to her feet; one furious fist twisted into the lapel of her red hunting jacket – the one which matched his own stitch for stitch.

She dangled in his grasp, lips a hair’s breadth away from his own.

“Love,” she murmured, dizzy and light-headed, “you have no idea what love is. Not even when it’s staring you right in the fucking face”.

 

“Says _you_ ”.

“Says _Yuuri_ ”.

J.J.’s grip tightened, Isabella nearly choked.

“Choose your next words _very carefully_ , Yang–” he hissed.

Isabella grinned like a madwoman, “You really are just a _broken toy_ , aren’t you, J.J.? So _obtuse_. So _unyielding_. So _entitled_. So _obsessed_ with with some _fantasy_   you can't even tell what's real anymore -"

The next second, she was stumbling back; shoved away from J.J. like inhuman scum. The Hunter's mortuary sword hung limply in his grip.

“. . . but, just my luck, I fell in love with you anyway”, Isabella murmured.

“ _What the hell is wrong with you_?” J.J. seethed, “You’re acting crazier than The Tinker –” 

“Well, _why else would I still be here,_ trying to _save you from yourself_ –?”

“I’ve heard _enough_ ,”

“No. You haven’t,” Isabella hissed.

A tinny snap echoed in the night; the unmistakeable sound of metal sliding on metal as the hammer of a firearm locked into place.

Isabella grinned; in her right hand she held the last of J.J.’s pistols . . . and aimed it straight at his heart.

The Hunter’s eyes went wide, dropping immediately to his bandolier; now emptier than a broken bottle.

“You really should have minded me,” The Huntress sighed, “then I wouldn’t have your pistol, and you wouldn’t be in this mess –”

J.J. rolled his eyes, “C-come on, Yang . . . we _both_ know you won’t shoot”.

His words were callous, but his tone was terse.

“Won’t I?” Isabella challenged, “ _Look around_ , J.J. . . . this _destruction_ , this _chaos_ – _you_ did this. And I don’t even care _why_ anymore. Love, arrogance, vengeance, obsession? _It doesn’t matter_ ; nothing can justify _this_ , no matter how injured your ego or how noble your delusions. So _it ends now_ – one way or another.”

The threat hung in the air; dancing on the breeze.

Isabella held firm, despite the ache in her arm and the blood soaking her sleeve.

“Surrender,” she commanded, “before you do something you’ll _really_ regret”.

J.J.’s eyes narrowed, dropping his gaze to the flagstones underfoot. He frowned, nodding to himself as he sheathed his sword.

Isabella nearly collapsed in relief.

Suddenly, her world was torn asunder once again.

J.J. dove to the pavement, rolling to reach the pistol she’d made him forfeit earlier; the one he’d meant for The Beast.

It was still laying there on the promenade where he’d dropped it; fully loaded and hungry for blood.

Isabella immediately got him back in her sights; but now she was in his as well.

For a moment, the world stood still.

_"Do you think J.J. would still go through with this . . . even if he knew how much it hurt you?”_

Isabella smothered a sob; she supposed she had her answer now.

Another roar from the battlefield drew her eye.

The magical weapons – or whatever they were – had managed to aid The Beast, who was now bounding for the Castle; broken and bloodied.

J.J. snarled; gagging on his resentment.

Ever-so-slowly, The Hunter rose to his feet.

“I don’t have time for this,” he scoffed, “I have a Beast to kill,”

He turned his back on The Huntress; daring her to fire.

Isabella didn’t hesitate.

Her hand was steady as she pulled the trigger; sacrificing her heart to the gunshot that shattered the night.

J.J. muffled a cry of agony as the bullet tore clean though his right deltoid.

For one terrifying moment, nothing happened.

Then, the silhouette of J.J. swayed in the night breeze, like a drunkard stumbling home.

When he spoke, his voice was that of a stranger.

“Good . . . I guess we’re even, then”.

He didn’t look back.

“Shit,” Isabella hissed, turning her woozy eyes in search of her sabre.

When she looked up, J.J. was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Japanese] Okāsan = お母さん= Mom
> 
> [French] Chéri = Darling (Colloquial)
> 
> [French] Mon Petit Bichon = My Little Dog/My Pet (Colloquial Term of Endearment)
> 
> [French] Coup D’état = "Stroke of State" or "Blow Against the State" (Literally). A Coup D’état is a type of revolution, wherein the "State" is seized/overthrown by the Military. (Or, sometimes by other Elites from within the State - but "Coup" most often refers to a Military takeover.) 
> 
> [French] N'est-ce Pas? = Isn't that so? (Phrase usually used at the end of a sentence to confirm a statement - like how an English speaker might say "Right?")
> 
> [French] Bon Toutou = Good Doggie/Good Boy
> 
> [Russian] Solnyshko = Солнышко = My Sunshine/Little Sun (Term of Endearment)
> 
> [Russian] Lyubov Moya = любовь моя = My Love
> 
> [French] Adieu = Farewell/Goodbye (From the French "A Dieu Vous Comant" = "I Commend You To God"). "Adieu" is usually reserved for lasting or permanent separations, as well as extra-fond farewells. As Emil is charging into battle, I figured it was appropriate.
> 
> Hit Me Up With Any Fixes!


	16. . . . & The Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> . . . and they all lived Happily Ever After.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S HERE - THE FINAL CHAPTER.
> 
> Buckle up buds - it's another LONG one! Keep your eyes peeled for The Epilogue: Coming Soon (ish?) To A Browser Near You.
> 
> From the bottom of my heart - thank you so much for coming on this wild adventure with me. This Chapter is dedicated to you all <3
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [silverscribblesuniverse](https://silverscribblesuniverse.tumblr.com/) or check out my [other fics on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Scribbles/works)!
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS: (MINOR SPOILERS AHEAD).
> 
> VIOLENCE (Guns & Gun Violence, Swordplay, Battlefield Imagery, Wounds & Injuries) STRONG LANGUAGE, FIRE & FIRE DAMAGE, DEPICTIONS OF PANIC ATTACK (slightly more graphic than previous), 
> 
> MAJ. CHARACTER DEATH
> 
> This Chapter also uses a lot of BLOOD imagery - descriptions are more metaphoric than graphic, but proceed with caution.

“Thank you again for joining us this evening, Maire Marchand . . . I hope the tea is to your liking?”

Yuuko smiled her biggest, cheeriest smile, placing a try of freshly baked pastries right in front of the Lord Maire. She took a seat opposite him at her kitchen table; hands lightly dusted with flour, favourite pink apron still tied around her waist.

“Ah yes, yes,” The Lord Maire tittered, “Thank you muchly, Madame Nishigori. Perfect blend. Yes, the very thing to calm my nerves . . . after that rather _nasty_ business earlier . . .”

The Old Man huffed, biting into a flakey jam-filled tart to punctuate his point.

“Well, _of course_ ,” Yuuko agreed, “it was the _least_ I could do to _apologise_ for my husband’s behaviour. He can be _quite_ a stickler for the rules,” she sighed, affecting her sweetest, most innocent voice, “But I suppose that’s what you get with men of the law.”

She shrugged, cocking her head with a bright, saccharine smile, “How are the pastries?”

“Mmm, yes, delicious, yes,” The Lord Maire replied through a mouthful of strawberry filling, “absolutely divine!”

The Old Man sputtered as he nearly choked on a mouthful, then took a sip of his tea, cleared his throat and continued, “Ah . . . well, bit embarrassing, that earlier ‘ _tiff_ ’, eh?” he offered sheepishly, “I admit . . . it’s _possible_ I may have gotten a _wee bit_ carried away. It’s the ol’ military reflexes in me, you know. But . . . I _suppose_ he’s a good man, your husband. And he must have _some_ sense in his head, to land such a fine, upstanding young lady as yourself. Indeed,  _punctiliousness_ isn’t the _worst_ trait to find in a lawman . . .”

“Still though,” Yuuko insisted, “he should have obeyed your orders. You know best, after all . . .”

“Too right, too right . . . my goodness, but these are good!” Marchand muttered, absently reaching for yet another tart.

Yuuko took a sip of her own tart tea, hiding a Cheshire grin behind the dainty porcelain.

The flattery was working; Marchand was even more buttered up than the pastries.

Just then, the triplets popped up on the other side of the table; holding their fancy doll between them.

“Why girls!” Yuuko gasped, feigning shock at their sudden appearance, “What in the world are you still doing up? I put you to bed ages ago!”

“We’re sorry, Okāsan,” Axel began, “we just couldn’t sleep –”

“We realized we hadn’t thanked Lord Maire Marchand for our birthday present yet!” Lutz explained, dramatic as her mother.

Loop held the doll aloft, “Thank you for sending her to our parents all the way from The City, Monsieur Lord Maire!”

“Her name is ‘Sally’!”

“It’s short for ‘Salchow’ –”

“She was the best-est present _ever_!”

“And we wuv her, vewy, vewy much!” they finished in unison.

The girls beamed up at the Lord Maire; the very picture of innocence.

“Well, my goodness!” Marchand chuckled, turning to Yuuko, “Aren’t they little darlings!” he looked back to the triplets, “you are most welcome, my dears!”

“That was very sweet of you, girls,” Yuuko praised, “but you'd best run along to bed now”.

The triplets sighed, ostensibly disheartened at being be sent away.

“Aww, Okāsan, do we _have to_?” Axel begged; just a wee bit too exaggerated.

“You do,” Yuuko replied, “Lord Maire Marchand and I are discussing gown up things, and you three need your rest. Now, say good night to The Lord Maire”.

The triplets turned to him with soft, sleepy eyes.

“Good night Lord Maire Marchand,” they crooned in unison.

The Old Man’s heart nearly burst; he wished them sweet dreams with a warm, doting smile, and then sent the girls off to bed.

Yuuko grinned; perfect.

Her daughters had played their part well.

“Such thoughtful children,” Marchand praised, “You don’t see many little ones with manners like that now a’ days . . . you and Nishigori have done a fine job raising them. A fine job indeed”.

The Lord Maire took another slurp of his tea, “Now, what was it we were talking about again? The ol’ water wheel doesn’t turn as quick as it used to, I’m afraid,” he chuckled, tapping his temple to punctuate his point.

“Oh, nothing of consequence . . .” Yuuko drawled.

She took a deep breath; time to put the real plan into action.

“. . . just . . . the attack on Nikiforov Manor”.

“Oh, yes, yes, of course. The um –” Marchand frowned, looking down into his tea, as if he were trying to puzzle out a riddle written on the inside of the cup, “I . . . I’m sorry Madame Nishigori . . . did you say, ‘ _Nikiforov_ Manor’?”

“I did, yes,” Yuuko replied, cautiously optimistic.

Her plan was simple – charm the Lord Maire, flatter him, win him over with tea and pastries and ‘adorable’ children, get him to like her, get him to _trust_ her, and then . . . just ask him for one teensy-weensy little favour.

Not that it was much of a ‘favor’ on his part, really; if Marchand had any idea that Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov and The Beast were one in the same, he never would have authorized J.J.’s attack in the first place.

The problem being, of course, that Marchand _didn’t_ have any idea that that Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov and The Beast were one in the same; and Yuuko was far too short on time – and _patience_  – to convince him of the truth.

No, for now, she just had to find some way to separate the two in his mind; Marchand would _never_ halt a campaign against some ‘ _fearsome creature_ ’ . . . but a campaign against ‘ _Nikiforov Manor_ ’ . . ?

Well, _that_ was a much easier argument to make; and a _much easier favour_ to ask.

Yuuko’s eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly as she watched the Lord Maire ponder.

“Nikiforov . . .” The Old Man puzzled, “Ni-ki-for-ov . . . _why do I know that name_?”

“I’m not sure, Lord Maire,” Yuuko shrugged, “You must know a lot of –”

“Evgeni . . . Igor . . . Ivan . . .” Marchand ignored her, muttering to himself and drumming his fingers on the table as he wracked his aging brain, “Ilan . . . ILYA! ILYA!” he cried, thumping his fist triumphantly on the table, “Ho, ho, of course! Ilya Nikiforov! I remember now . . . what a man to forget! I must be aging even worse than I thought, ha-ha!”

Yuuko’s brow furrowed in confusion; it was only partly for show.

The Prince – wasn’t his name ‘Viktor’?

That’s what Isabella had said.

“I’m sorry My Lord,” Yuuko ventured, genuinely perplexed, “but, who’s _Ilya_ Nikiforov?”

“Why, King of The Northern Territories – Third of his name, of course!” Marchand hooted, “Little wonder the two of us hardly remember him; rumor has it, the ol’ sad sack’s been hiding away in The Northern Capitol for . . . well, ever since the annexation of this very Province, I’d imagine. Been pouting away up there these last twenty years – always was a sore loser, that one. Pity I haven’t visited as of late – but it snows like the dickens up there, you see –”

Yuuko nodded along, trying to keep her surprise from showing.

If this ‘Ilya’ person was _King of the Northern Territories_ . . . then that would make him _Viktor’s father_ ; or very close kin at least.

 _Interesting_ ; perhaps she could use this unexpected revelation to her advantage . . .

“So you – you know him, then?” Yuuko pressed, “This ‘ _King Ilya_ ’?”

“W-well –” The Lord Maire sputtered, “yes. Er, _knew_ , rather. Fallen a bit out of touch, haven’t we? Being on opposite boarders and all –”

“ _Really_?” Yuuko gasped, “Er – I mean – that’s just . . . so _impressive_ Maire Marchand! How did you ever meet a _King_?”

Marchand’s pale blue eyes lit up like fireworks; his jubilant smile was back, “Ah, yes! Fascinating story, actually – see, _his_ father, King Ilya the _Second_ bestowed me with dominion over these lands _ages_ ago . . . back when this Province belonged to the North, and I was little more than a doe-eyed lieutenant! Just a – a _humble_ reward for distinguishing myself on the battlefield, you know. In those days, Ilya Number Three was barely knee-high to a papier-mâché moose . . . but now _he’s_ the one in charge eh? As he _should_ be, of course; why, Ilya the _Second_ ’s been dead for nigh on . . . what is it, _fifty years_ now? It’d be a bit of a worry if _he_ were still up and about, eh? Not least of all for Ilya Number Three’s backside – oh, the paddlin’ he’d get from his ol’ dad for losing such an attractive Province! Ho ho! Now _that’d_ be one for the History Books! Not that Ilya The Younger is in much better condition as it is. Not these days anyway–”

Yuuko slowly set down her teacup, “W-what do you mean by that?”

“Well, the ol’ sad sack’s nearly ancient as I am, isn't he?” The Lord Maire answered defensively, “Sure, I’ve a couple decades on him, but he’s no spring chicken! One _has to_ assume he’s got a _little_ hitch in his giddy-up by now . . .”

Marchand blinked owlishly at his companion; Yuuko smiled, gracefully smoothing down her apron.

“Right, of course,” she agreed, “silly me!”

The Old Man pensively looked back to his tea and took another sip.

“It is a shame though . . .” he sighed, “miserable sod’s up there all by his lonesome. Had a wife once . . . but the poor dear died rather young, if memory serves – some malady of the lungs, or other. And of course, stubborn ass that he is, he never remarried – Ilya the _Third_ , of course. And now the poor lout’s got no family at all . . . and _worse_ , no heir to his throne. No telling what’ll happen to The North once he’s gone,” Marchand wiped the corner of his mouth, leaning across the table with a conspiratorial quirk of the lips, “My theory is: things being what they are, ol’ Ilya just refuses to ‘pass on’ out of sheer spite – heh, heh, heh . . .”

Yuuko gave a little chortle in reply.

The Lord Maire’s story certainly _seemed_ true enough, though the details didn’t _quite_ add up – but whether that was due to the influence of the spell, or Marchand’s own ailing memory, Yuuko had no idea.

“Well, now! Hasn’t this been a fun little trip down memory lane!” The Lord Maire crowed, reaching for yet another tart, “I’ll have to write the ol’ bean-pole one of these days. See how he is. But, where are my manners? What, ah . . . what were we saying before I commandeered the conversation? Something about an invasion?”

“An attack,” Yuuko corrected, “on Nikiforov Manor”.

Marchand frowned, “Oh yes, dreadful business, that,” he tutted, “Absolutely dreadful. I don’t envy the man who crosses Ilya Nikiforov”. He took a crumbly bite of pastry and continued on, spitting crumbs as he spoke, “So, what _witless buffoon_ mounted such a foolhardy attack?”

“. . . you did, Lord Maire Marchand”.

The Old Man’s eyes went wide in disbelief; he looked like he might choke to death on his tart.

“I – wha – I never!” The Lord Maire sputtered, “What in blazes–? Who would say such a–? Ridiculous! Why, the very idea –!”

“I think, Lord Maire,” Yuuko gently interrupted, “that _someone_ may have deceived you”.

The jubilant visage of the kindly Lord Maire melted into the steely frown of General Marchand.

“Merciful stars!” The Old Man grumbled, rummaging through his pockets for nothing in particular, “First some murderous-type _Beast_ shows up, and now _this_? What sort of Town am I running here? Never been so disrespected in all my –”

Yuuko pressed a hand over her mouth to stem the tide of giggles attempting to break free.

“Come, Madame Nishigori,” Marchand beckoned, rising brusquely to his feet, “we’ll get to the bottom of this! Don’t you worry! I shall hunt down the rapscallion who dares impugn my honor and then I’ll – _oooh_ – I’ll–! But first, a pen! And – and parchment! And a postman! And ink! Oh, yes, ink too! Very important, the ink! I have a great many letters to write!”

He straightened his jacket with a huff, plucked one last strawberry tart from the tray, and flounced to the door like the prancing dandy he was.

Yuuko scrambled to follow, untying her apron and tossing it over the back of her chair.

Three little pairs of bright, cunning eyes peeked out at her from around the corner.

“Stay here,” Yuuko mouthed, adopting her sternest, most motherly expression, “ _behave_ ”.

The girls nodded in earnest.

Yuuko followed The Lord Maire out of their homey little cottage, donning her nicest coat as she went.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The instant they were alone, the girls made a bee-line for the mountain of pastries.

 

***** 

 

Viktor tore into The Castle foyer, muzzle high in the air; desperately trying to sift Yuuri’s scent from the horrible stench of battle.

The sight which greeted him was _unexpected_ , to say the least.

Inside The Castle, the fighting was _actually_ under control . . . for the most part.

Though the scene within was chaotic and crowded, the staff seemed to be standing firm; looking quite a bit worse for wear, but all present and accounted for.

With the support of the Chevaliers, they’d managed to subdue most of J.J.’s troops; a few problematic pugilists were still being dealt with further in, but a majority of The Villagers had been disarmed and rounded up. A ceaseless drone of complaints thickened the air, as the defeated legions pouted at the foot of the staircase; Nikolai and his team drifted between the vanquished villagers, begrudgingly tending to their wounds.

Michele and Emil stood sentry, along with Viktor’s senior staff and one of the Town Guards; his dual blades still at the ready.

With them, was –

“Phichit!”

The Prince slid to a stop, deftly dodging a rake and a trident who were trying to corral a tomato-faced man.

His own fresh wounds were screaming bloody murder.

“ _Where’s Yuuri_?”

The Inventor’s eyes went wide as they scanned the grisly Prince – who at this very moment was _supposed to be_ safely up in his chambers.

“I-I thought – _isn’t he with_ _you_?”

Viktor’s heart didn’t dare beat.

“Yea!” Minami accused, “Yuuri came through here ages ago! _He was looking for you_!”

“There were two men after him!” Emil warned, “Mickey and I were able to hold them off–”

“Until the _kid_ pinned us to Georgi,” Michele huffed.

Viktor’s face flushed with dread, “Which way did they –? Wh-what about The Captain? Did he–?”

“I saw him!” The Officer answered, “He went that way. Marcel was with–”

Viktor was off before the man could even finish his sentence.

 

*****

 

Marcel Durand’s dark, thoughtful eyes narrowed in concern.

After a long moment, he spoke; shattering the terse silence of the ballroom.

“Boucher . . . did you . . . did you _seriously_ just _yank that knife out_?”

Stephan sneered; every eye fell on the behemoth, waiting to see what he would do next.

Yuuri felt like a newly-strung harp string; stiff and strained – pulled taut and stretched to his limits – anxious and out-of-tune as he vibrated against the polished wooden floor.

“Uh, _yea_ ,” Stephan laughed, snorting through his broken nose, “Your _cudte liddle place seddings_ don’t scare me, Durand! You’re no madtch fer us, _and you know idt_!”

“Um . . . okay . . .” Marcel hedged, “But – see, what I actually _meant_ was: just _yanking a knife out of yourself_ like that is _unbelievably dangerous_ ”.

Stephan rolled his eyes and answered with a petulant glare.

Marcel’s brow furrowed in disbelief, “Wait. Do you – do you _genuinely_ not know how _lethal_ that can be?”

“Oh, _wadever_ –!”

“No, I’m _serious_ , Boucher,” Marcel insisted, “That’s not some poncy little paper-cut in your ass. Without the proper medical attention, you’re looking at _significant_ blood loss. I mean, a gash like _that_ – you could _faint_ , you could _bleed out_ , you could get an _infection_ . . . Thank _mercy_ I didn’t target anything _vital_ , because you just _drastically_ increased your odds of fatality by –”

“Well, _fuck_ , Durand!” The Meathead wailed, throwing his arms up like a child having a tantrum, “How was I s’pposed da know dadt?”

Marcel rolled his eyes. He sheathed his hunting knife.

“ _I’m sorry_ , but aren’t you a _hunter_?” he accused, tone brimming with sarcasm; “Forgive me for assuming you _knew_ the _basic mechanics_ of–”

“Oh, don’ give me dadt!” Stephan scoffed, “Dis is _your_ fauldt, okay? _You’re_ the one that fucking _sdtabbed_ me!”

“Yea, but I didn’t expect you to go and _pull the mercy-forsaken knife out_ –”

“Well, _wad did you thdink was gonn’ habben_?”

“Right. Silly me, I thought you might actually _stop and think for once_ instead of _re-traumatising a fresh wound_. Seriously, you couldn’t have waited _five minutes_ for a doctor?”

“Ugh, you thdink you’re _so smardt_ , don’ you, Durand?”

“Well, I’m not the one _hemorrhaging out of my_ –”

“Hey, _you’re_ da reason we’re in dis mess! If you hadn’ fucking sdtabbed me–”

Yuuri slowly rose to his feet, leaning on Leo for support. The Harpsichord looked as lost as The Dancer felt.

Marcel closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“ _Fine_ ,” he hissed, fighting to keep his composure. With a weary sigh, he began to approach The Meathead, “Turn around and let me–”

“What? _Why_?”

“Oh _honestly_ , Boucher, don’t be such a child. Just turn around and I’ll see if I can stop the–”

“What? NO! No way!” Stephan objected, “I’m not letting you anywhere _near_ –”

“Fine. You want to bleed to death? Be my guest –”

“Ha!” Damien crowed, “serves you right for ditching me, Boucher!”

“Hey! You stay oudda dis, pipsqueak!”

“Pfft, why don’t you _make_ me?”

“Well, _that’s_ helpful, Dupont. Perhaps _you_ would care to do the honors then–?”

“Ew! _Gross_! I don’t wanna get that close to Boucher’s–”

“Well I don’t much ‘want to’ either, but you don’t see me whining about it–”

“ _HEY! YER DA ONE DADT SDTABBED ME IN DA FIRSDT PLACE_!”

Captain Nishigori sighed, lowering his lantern as The Hunters continued to bicker.

In moments, he was at Yuuri’s side.

“Hey. You alright?”

The Dancer jumped almost right out of his skin. He’d hardly noticed The Captain approach; too mesmerized by the absolute train wreck unfolding before them.

“Ah, y-yea. Yea, fine,” he stammered, swaying in place like a sailor on stormy sea-legs, “But what’s –? How did –? Why are you –?”

“Isabella,” The Captain replied.

Yuuri’s eyes went wide, “So – you and Marcel – you’re not here to –?”

“Nah, we’re on your side,” Nishigori assured, “but next time you see Phichit, you tell him he owes me _one hell of an explanation_ ”.

Yuuri nodded, coughing through the tightness in his throat.

“Have you seen Vik– uh – I mean, The Be– er, The, um –?”

The Dancer’s eyes scrunched in exasperation.

“You mean, have I seen _Viktor Nikiforov:_ _Crown Prince of the Northern Territories_?” Nishigori supplied, equally exasperated, “Yea. He’s hemmed down outside – sent me and Marcel in after you”.

A fire lit in Yuuri’s chest, quashing his anxious stupor and suddenly spurring him back to life.

“I have to get out there!” he urged, facing The Captain head-on, “I have to reach him –”

Nishigori clapped an enormous hand on Yuuri’s shoulder, keeping him steady, “Consider it done”.

The Dancer very nearly collapsed with relief.

“I’ll escort you,” Nishigori decided, glancing over at the squabbling hunting party, “Marcel can deal with _those two_ ”.

“Right,” Yuuri agreed, “. . . Th-thank you, Captain”.

The Dancer hoped that those three simple words were enough to express the depths of his gratitude; not just for the rescue, but for everything his unexpected allies had done.

The Captain nodded, “Anytime. The Nishigori Family’s always got your back – you know that”.

With a little smile, Nishigori turned away, signalling Yuuri to follow as he headed for the ballroom doors.

But before they could reach their destination, another unexpected surprise burst into the room.

“YUURI?! _YUURI?_ ”

“V-VIKTOR!?”

“YUU– oof!”

The Beastly Prince came bounding in – fangs bared, talons out – frantic and bloody as he charged forth in search of his beloved.

He collided head-on with The Dancer, who was sprinting toward his Prince – arms open and ready with an embrace.

Viktor caught him just in the nick of time, sweeping The Dancer up into his bruised and battered arms; but the unexpected momentum unbalanced him, sending both toppling to the ground.

“ _Woah_ –ak!”

_‘THUD’._

“Ow . . .”

“Oh no! Viktor! I’m _so_ sorry! I didn’t mean to –”

Viktor was sprawled out on his back, dizzy and cringing beneath Yuuri’s feather-light form.

“S-sorry!” The Dancer fretted “Here, I’ll just – here, if I just move–”

But Viktor was already wrapping his arms tight around his beloved; clinging to him with all the love in his great beastly body.

“Oh Yuuri, you’re _safe_! Thank Mercy! I never should have left you! Thank mercy you’re safe, thank mercy you’re–”

Viktor’s words whispered through Yuuri’s ears and settled into his heart; a prayer of gratitude to whatever deity had deigned to spare them.

“V-Viktor, you’re _bleeding_!” Yuuri squeaked, “Are you –? How bad is it? Come on, let me – let’s get you up –”

Slowly, the two untangled themselves; still holding onto one another as they sat face-to-face on the ballroom floor.

And having Viktor back; seeing him there in the flesh just a whisper away – safe and mostly sound – was the greatest gift Yuuri ever could have asked for.

“See?” Viktor wheezed, far more smug than was appropriate, considering the crimson mess he’d made of the bleached aspen floor, “Told you I’d always come back t–”

“ _Viktor, I LOV_ –!”

“SO _HERE’S_ WHERE YOU RAN OFF TO, _MONSTER_!”

All eyes snapped to the edge of the dance floor.

There, in all his righteous fury, stood none other than Jean Jacques Leroy.

A slash in the side of his suit was stiff with rusty red, as were the crimson tiger-stripes littering his thighs. In his right hand he brandished a single pistol – with his left, he clutched at his shoulder. A river of rubies rolled through his fingertips - fine wine staining the emerald green jacket beneath.

His grin was out of place; clenched and crooked and two sizes too big.

Viktor growled, low and dangerous; he tried to stand, but his injured calf seized up on him, pinning him in place with a hiss of pain.

Yuuri’s face fell.

The Hunting Party stopped their bickering.

J.J. raised his pistol, crosshairs landing right between Viktor’s eyes.

His challenge was answered without a moment’s hesitation.

Captain Nishigori strode forward, head held high; blocking The Hunter’s line of fire.

Marcel’s voice echoed off of gleaming marble and crystal chandeliers.

“Isabella – _where is she_? _What did you do to her, J.J._?”

The Hunter didn’t answer; just held his flintlock tighter.

Nishigori took a deep breath, bitterness taking root as he spoke.

“Jean Jacques Leroy; as Captain of The Village Guard, I am hereby placing you under arrest”.

The Hunter only sneered, unmoved by the Captain’s warning, “Out of my way, Nishigori,” he growled, “this isn’t your fight”.

With a resigned nod, The Captain set his lantern down.

He stood and drew his sabre.

“It is now”.

J.J.’s furious snarl became a pitiful grimace as he shifted to face his new opponent; gripping his bloody shoulder even tighter with a little wince of pain. The pistol trembled in his right hand, as if he were losing the strength to aim it.

“Boucher! Dupont! _Do something_!” J.J. hissed, eyes still pinned to The Beast.

Stephan didn’t hesitate.

The next instant, Marcel was sent reeling with a heavy back-hand to the jaw. The Pacifist staggered - unprepared for the strike - and fell to the ground with a split lip and spotty vision.

“DADT’S FER MY ASS, DURAND!”

The Meathead winced as he gave Marcel a hefty kick to the ribs; rolling The Pacifist onto his front. In one smooth motion, Stephan stole the serrated hunting knife right out of Marcel’s scabbard – to replace the blunderbuss he’d abandoned during his encounter with The Chevaliers.

He advanced on The Captain with a menacing smile; limping ever-so-slightly, thanks to the gash in his buttock.

But Nishigori was ready. His sabre had more than double the reach of Stephan’s knife, and despite The Meathead’s best efforts, he just wasn’t agile enough to get past The Captain’s defenses.

Nishigori held firm as their blades impotently circled one another; still doing his best to obscure J.J.’s line of fire.

“HEY! _What the hell am I paying you for_? Get in there Dupont!” J.J. roared, furious at having been thwarted yet again.

Yuuri’s fuzzy gaze snapped to The Young Man; dread sluicing down his spine.

Viktor couldn’t walk – couldn’t even _stand_. If Damien chose to come for them – 

But he didn't.

The Young Man just stood there, frozen – eyes wide, rapier drawn – trying to make sense of the tragedy before him.

His gaze darted from The Despicable Meathead who’d ditched him in battle, to The Pious Captain who'd threatened to punish him, to The Double-Crossing Pacifist who always spoke down to him, to The Hideous Beast who’d thrown his home into chaos, to The Mysterious Playboy who’d caused him nothing but grief.

Finally, his eyes came to rest on The Villainous Hunter who’d started it all.

“ _Well_?” J.J. demanded, “ _What are you waiting for_?”

Confusion turned to anger in The Young Man’s eyes.

He threw down his rapier with a huff.

“Forget it. Have fun killing each other, _freaks_. I’m going home”.

With that, Damien Dupont turned and stalked out of the ballroom; whipping off his hunting jacket and flinging it to the floor, as if to wash his hands of the whole sorry situation.

“Dupont? _DUPONT_? GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE–!”

A silver blur whipped past J.J.’s face, cutting his sentence short.

Marcel was on his feet again; another knife missing from his belt.

J.J. scowled. He sheathed his pistol; ear-marking his final bullet for The Beast.

He reached for his sword, but reeled in pain as his injured arm met its resistance; so weak now, that he could't even draw his blade - let alone wield it.

Realizing – almost too late – that he’d left himself open, J.J. went on the defensive; bobbing and weaving until he’d placed himself on the far side of the dueling Captain – using Nishigori as a human shield, while Stephan continued his woozy assault.

Marcel snatched up his next knife; priming another attack even as he searched for a safe opening. He traversed the ballroom on nimble toes, trying to find his angle, but J.J. kept his cover well.

The two circled like sharks around the chum of Stephan and Nishigori’s impotent duel.

Yuuri’s heart filled with dread. Witnessing the battle unfold was like watching a grass fire spread – so destructive, so heartbreaking, and yet, so mesmerizing he couldn’t look away.

Remorse ate at The Dancer like acid, envying Damien Dupont more and more with every passing second; what Yuuri wouldn’t give, for the option to just walk away.

A little grunt of pain drew his attention back to Viktor. The Prince was trying to stand again; trying to join the fight.

Yuuri’s arm whipped out reflexively, fisting in Viktor’s bloody shirt to stop him.

The Prince looked back; confused and contrite.

The Dancer’s eyes were pleading. Not even Viktor, with his beastly bulk and enchanted constitution, could survive another fight. The Prince needed _rest_ , needed _aid_ , needed to get somewhere _safe_.

Yuuri’s heart and mind were both racing now; determined to get Viktor out alive, if it was the last thing he ever did.

The Dancer pressed an index finger to his lips to indicate silence; scanning the ballroom and hoping against hope that some of Phichit’s brilliance had rubbed off on him over the years.

His eyes flickered from the injured Prince, to the dueling Villagers to the dumbstruck Musicians – desperately searching for an escape.

At last, they landed on a pair of heavy glass doors, which led out onto an elegant, white stone veranda.

Perfect!

So long as Marcel and Nishigori could keep J.J. and Stephan distracted, he and Viktor just might be able to slip away unnoticed.

Slowly, Yuuri began to slide himself along the polished floor, gesturing for Viktor to follow. The Prince caught on immediately, trailing The Dancer with a silent wince of pain.

_‘CLANG!’_

The sharp ring of steel reverberated around The Ballroom as one of Marcel’s knives ricocheted off a decorative column; missing its target entirely.

For a man with a gaping wound in his shoulder, J.J. was surprisingly agile.

Yuuri looked back to the veranda and redoubled his efforts, scrambling across pale aspen in earnest.

Viktor was right on his tail.

Yuuri made it to the foot of the great glass doors with ears full of cotton and a mouth full of sand. With one numb, trembling hand, he reached up for the crystal knob; salvation only seconds away.

“HEY! WHAT’RE YOU –?”

Yuuri jumped at the sudden outcry; his hand slipping from its perch.

He whipped around, terrified that their flight had been discovered.

But, it was only Stephan Boucher.

Apparently, Marcel had switched up his target; unable to get a clean shot at J.J., he decided to remove his barrier altogether.

Stephan rocked and wobbled on unsteady legs; stubbornly refusing to yield despite the untreated gash still actively bleeding from his backside. He swung his stolen knife in wide, careless arcs; dizzy and clouded as his blood pressure plunged.

Marcel and Nishigori flanked him; The Captain held Stephan at bay, as Marcel swooped in from behind with a kick to the knee.

‘AK – WOAH!’

Stephan tumbled to the ground without a shred of resistance.

_'THUD’._

“What’s –? What’d you –? Ugh, I-I don’t feel so –”

Slowly, his objections petered out, his jaw went slack, and his eyes slipped shut.

Marcel heaved an exasperated sigh.

“I _warned_ him about passing out . . . but does anyone ever _listen_ to me? No . . .”

With two brisk, agile steps, Marcel crossed the unconscious body of Stephan Boucher and reclaimed his stolen hunting knife. He nodded to Nishigori, then turned his sights back on J.J.; fully armed and ready to strike.

Now, it was two against one.

Tired and panting, J.J. slowly backed away – looking from his tired opponents to his fleeing targets.

The Villain’s face contorted in anger; furious at the rapidly turning tides.

For one brief, shining moment, Yuuri’s eyes were alight with relief.

J.J. was completely outmatched.

Did this mean . . . they’d _won_? Was the nightmare was finally ove–?

His hopes were instantly dashed.

For, where another man may have surrendered, the ever-resourceful Villain managed to eke out a golden opportunity.

J.J. sprang forward – eyes steely, teeth grit – lunging for the abandoned lantern sitting not five feet away from him on the ballroom floor.

He scooped it up with fumbling fingers and flung it at the staircase.

The simple glass shattered against the plush gold runner and solid white marble beneath.

Kerosene fuel splattered across expensive wool, the steady flame flickered, and in an instant the runner was ablaze.

Ribbons of fire licked their way up the staircase, releasing black plumes of smoke as the rich golden dye sublimated in the heat. Orange light flickered across the metallic fixtures and polished floor, reflecting the flames back in on themselves a thousand times over.

The scene was hypnotic – almost mesmerizing in its terror – like witnessing the birth of a mighty dragon.

Yuuri felt the final threads of his control slipping away as the ballroom went up in flames.

The Musicians leapt into to action – darting for the buckets of water which had been prepped before battle.

But a bark from Seung-Gil stopped them dead in their tracks; reminding the others that they were all still made of _wood_ , and thus, couldn’t get near the flames without risking their own immolation. His reprimand all that was standing between The Instruments and a hasty demise.

Seeing no other option, The Musicians called out to the Villagers for help.

Marcel and Nishigori scrambled; both torn between stopping the fire and stopping The Villain who’d set it.

J.J. drew his pistol and set his sights on Viktor.

Now, nothing stood between The Beast, The Dancer and The Hunter.

Yuuri’s eyes were blown wide with terror. A rainbow of orange and yellow danced across the shimmering shield of his glasses. He retreated along the floor, until his back pressed flat against the great glass doors, less than half a pace away.

_N-no. T-trapped. He was trapped. Too hot, too hot, too bright, too bright –_

His panic attack was back in full-force.

Somewhere far away, Viktor was calling his name; but The Prince’s sweet, soft voice was no match for the rowdy roar of the raging inferno.

_RED, ORANGE, YELLOW, RED, ORANGE, YELLOW, RED –_

Viktor must have recognized the dire state of his beloved, because the next very moment, he was lurching forward to free them; aiming for the knob just above Yuuri’s head.

Unfortunately, his bloody paw fell short of its goal; another seized muscle, another wince of pain, and Viktor was collapsing under his own weight.

_Too hot, too hot, too bright, too bright, can’t breathe, can’t –_

The injured Prince was curled up in a fetal position; one paw gripping his bloody calf, the other sealing the most recent wound to his side.

_N-no!_

_V-viktor!_

_Viktor is hurt. Viktor is –_

_RED, ORANGE, YELLOW, RED –_

All conscious thought slipped away as Yuuri disintegrated under the heat of another uncontrollable fire.

But this time, there was no one coming to save him; not Viktor, not Phichit, not –

_Mari._

_Mari, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry . . ._

Yuuri scrunched his eyes shut tight –

_Too hot. Too hot. Too bright. Too bright. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe._

– and slowly pushed himself up onto his knees.

_H-HELP! HELP ME, MARI! HELP ME – I-I CAN’T SEE!  Too hot. Too hot. Too bright. Too bright -_

The Dancer wobbled, turning to lean against the massive doors for support.

 _WAIT! DON'T GO! WHERE’S MARI? CAN’T LEAVE WITHOUT HER! WE **CAN'T**_ - _NOT AGAIN!"_

The glass, which should have been cool and balmy beneath his fingertips, was brittle and lukewarm at best.

_MARI –! MARI WHERE ARE YOU? WE’RE TRAPPED! WHAT DO WE DO? WHAT DO WE –? Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe._

Yuuri sucked in a lungful of bitter air; fumbling for the knob with sweaty, shaking hands.

_Be careful! Stay low! Go faster!_

_MARI –?_

_Be careful! Stay low! Go faster!_

_WHERE IS SHE?_

The Dancer threw his weight against the door – over and over and over again – in a futile attempt to break it down; trying to quell the unquenchable panic which smothered him like so much smoke and ash.

_Too hot, too hot, too bright, too bright, can’t breathe, can’t breathe –_

_N-no. NO. No panic. No time. Not now._

_Have to get out . . ._

_Too hot. Too hot -_

_Be careful!_

_Have to find Mari . . ._

_Too bright. Too bright -_

_Stay low!_

_Have to stop J.J. . . ._

_Can't breathe. Can't breathe -_

_Go Faster!_

_Have to save Viktor!_

Finally, Yuuri’s hand found its purchase.

He wrenched the door open with a vicious crank; flinging it wide and collapsing onto the cool white stone beyond.

The sun was starting to rise.

_Be Careful. Stay Low. Go faster._

Yuuri clawed his way to his feet, took a shaky, stuttering breath, and dove right back in for his beloved.

The Prince was not far, lying just on the other side of the threshold; slowly crawling his way to safety in The Dancer’s wake.

Yuuri reeled. Everything reeked.

Beyond the struggling Prince, the ballroom air was thick and cloudy – pitch black with combusting carbon, as if someone had gone and upturned an entire powder keg within.

Yuuri held his breath, looped both his arms around one of Viktor’s and hauled him to his feet.

The Prince roared in pain as the gash in his calf tore open, but he stood up all the same; bracing himself in the doorway to shield The Dancer from the heat of The Villain’s flames.

He staggered out and Yuuri slammed the door behind them; hard enough to rattle the frame and spider web the glass.

They could still see J.J. advancing from the other side, callously sweeping through stalks of smoke as though his lungs no longer needed to draw breath.

He showed no signs of slowing down.

“Yuuri –” Viktor panted, “Are you alright? Are you okay Lyub–?”

But Yuuri wasn’t listening; he was already plotting their escape.

“Hurry!” He commanded, taking his Prince by one bloody paw and yanking him down the elegant white stone steps.

“Yu-Yuuri?” Viktor yelped, struggling to keep up, “Where are you –?”

The dewy pre-dawn breeze tugged at Yuuri’s bangs; a sweet balm to the aching heat between his ribs.

“Somewhere J.J. will never find us”.

Viktor followed The Dancer’s desperate gaze; past the prim courtyard and polished promenade and picturesque gardens – right up to a little white pavilion, and the towering hedge maze beyond.

 

*****

 

Isabella Yang staggered into The Castle – weak and woozy – swept in with a tide of defeated musketeers.

The foyer was massive and crowded. Isabella drowned in the noise.

She wove through the scattered masses as magical weapons rounded up the attackers; led by a Clock and a Candelabrum and a Feather Duster. The musketeers had their wounds each tended in turn, before being marched straight down to the dungeons with the other invaders.

Isabella squinted. It was so crowded. Too crowded. She couldn’t find who she was trying to find –

She _was_ still trying to find someone, wasn’t she?

So _crowded_ . . . so _noisy_ . . .

Isabella stumbled, tripping over her own sabre, which was limply trailing along the ground.

J.J.! _Right_ – she had to _find_ J.J., had to _fight_ J.J., had to –

“Woah, woah, woah! Hold your horses, Yang –!”

Suddenly, a mysterious figure was bearing half her weight.

“– you’re not going _anywhere_ with an arm like that”.

Isabella was swept over to the staircase and deposited next to a Teapot.

A Teapot with a _face_.

“There, now. You just sit here quietly, and –”

Isabella turned her fuzzy eyes up toward the talking shadow overhead.

“. . . Minako?”

The Tutor smiled down at her, “in the flesh,” she quipped. Her right eye was bruised and shiny.

Isabella slumped forward; she couldn’t feel her arm.

A second voice entered the fray.

“Ahh, there she is . . . the woman of the hour. Never thought I’d say that, to be honest, but, credit where credit is due”.

That voice . . . so _sarcastic_ . . . so _familiar_ . . .

Someone was beside Isabella on the staircase now, carefully helping her shrug out of her hunting jacket.

She hissed in pain as the left sleeve peeled wetly off her arm.

The second voice spoke again.

“ _Seven hells_ , someone really did a number on you –”

“J.J.!” Isabella cried, suddenly electric, “where is he? We have to –ah!”

“No one’s seen him. Everything's so chaotic – he gave us the slip somehow, but we have people searching,” the second voice assured, “It’ll be okay, Isabella. His men are defeated. He can’t have gotten far –”

Isabella staggered to her feet.

“Have to _find_ him,” she insisted, “have to _stop_ him –”

“Hey, hey, hey!” The second voice objected; a face slowly came into focus, “We’re on it, Isabella – I promise!”

The face belonged to one Phichit Chulanont; and he actually looked _concerned_.

Concerned about _her_.

Weird.

“No more heroics from you today – understood? You’ve lost a lot of blood, missy, now sit!” he scolded, mothering her like a hen.

Minako took Isabella’s good arm and helped ease her back down onto the stairs.

Sit.

Sitting.

Isabella nodded.

Okay, she could do that . . . she could –

_‘SCREEEE, ZING-ZING-ZING-ZING-ZING-ZING-ZING!’_

The Huntress’ eyes scrunched against the sudden screeching.

Was that . . . _a viola_?

Then, someone was screaming.

“FIRE! _ZING!_ HELP! _ZING-ZING!_ FIRE IN THE BALLROOM! HURRY! _ZING-ZING-ZING_!”

Phichit cursed under his breath.

“I’ll handle it,” he decreed, “stay here with her”.

“Okay”.

“Okay”.

Both Minako and Isabella answered in unison.

The Tutor reached forward, tenderly brushing the hair out of Isabella’s bloodshot eyes.

A watery smile, a clanging of metal, a scuffling of feet . . . and then the world went black.

 

***** 

 

Left.

Right.

Left, left.

Right.

Another left.

The world was dark and cramped, scratchy and wicked as Yuuri pulled his injured Prince through the towering hedge maze.

He had no idea where he was going; panic and terror propelling his feet forward as he desperately tried to outrun the stench of the burning ballroom.

Left.

Right. Another right.

Left.

Damnit!

Had he just led them in circles?

Viktor limped along beside him, one arm slung across The Dancer’s shoulders for support. His broad frame nearly spanned the entire the pathway; brambles and branches whipping at his injured arms as they passed.

Left.

Left, left –

“Yuuri”.

Viktor’s brittle voice cracked over The Dancer’s head like an eggshell, drawing him back to reality.

“Please, Lyubov Moya. I just – ah – I just need a minute . . .”

Yuuri flushed with shame.

He shuddered; sweat chilling on his forehead as he forced himself to breathe.

“I – right. S-sorry,”

“There,” Viktor instructed, pointing to the next crossroad in the path, “turn right. That north path – it curls in on itself. It’s a dead end, but we’ll have a bit of cover . . . if J.J. even dared to follow us in here”.

His words were soft and sweet.

Yuuri nearly choked; how foolish of him indeed, to not let Viktor lead.

The Dancer nodded, hoping His Prince couldn’t see the warm trail of tears now rolling down his cheeks.

They veered right and entered the northern lane; an endless wall of evergreen, same as all the others – but now, there were no alternate pathways in sight. They turned left, then left, then left, then left again – following the circuitous route to completion. The angular spiral of shrubberies coiled around them like a snake; a shield as ominous as it was protective, concealing them a little bit more with each and every step.

Finally, they reached the center; a secluded little alcove, with only one way in or out.

The Dancer and his Prince stumbled all the way to the far side of the prickly enclosure. Yuuri gently set Viktor down, propping his beloved's back against the bushes and scanning his injuries to determine just how much worse they’d become.

“N-no, no, no, no, no . . . merciful stars–” Yuuri babbled; panic attack still electric in his veins. He sank to his knees on the soft, silty earth before his Prince, “V-Viktor, I . . . I’m so sorry! I –”

The Prince reached out with one limp paw, gently cupping The Dancer’s cheek.

“No, no. None of that, now,” he cooed, voice heavy with exhaustion, “We’re alright . . . we’re safe. You got us out. Just breathe. Just look at me and breathe–”

But as Yuuri looked upon The Prince’s angry red wounds, he only cried that much harder.

“No! Please – it’s alright, Lyubov Moya! D-don’t look then, just breathe –” Viktor quickly amended, “just keep breathing –”

Yuuri screwed his eyes shut; forcing himself to inhale, smooth and deep, over and over and over again, until the scent of evergreen sap had masked the stench of smoke and ash.

Finally, the tears ran dry; Yuuri looked to his Prince and nodded.

Viktor nodded back, reaching up with obsidian claws to rip the sleeves right off his own shirt.

“Here,” he whispered, passing the scrap fabric over to Yuuri, “I’ll be alright . . .”

The Dancer swallowed hard, nodding again as he accepted the makeshift bandages; not that they would do much good, considering how bloody they were already.

“But,” The Dancer’s lip trembled, “But you’re s-so hurt. It won’t do any–”

“All the same . . . it might _look_ a bit less frightful?”

Viktor’s muzzle pulled into a weak grin.

Yuuri's chest quaked as he smothered an incredulous sob; how Viktor still had the nerve to tease him _now_ of all times, The Dancer would never know.

Even so, he ripped the material into strips and started wrapping his beloved’s wounds.

“We’re . . . we’re winning,” Viktor panted, one paw pressed to his side as Yuuri set to work on his calf, “The Staff . . . and The Chevaliers . . . and The Officers . . . they –”

The Prince choked on air and dissolved into a painful fit of coughing.

“Shhh,” Yuuri soothed, caressing Viktor’s furry, bloodstained cheek, “It’s okay. _I-I'm_ okay. D-don’t speak. Just rest”.

Viktor nodded, tipped his head back against the shrubberies and closed his eyes.

The steady rise and fall of The Prince’s chest kept The Dancer grounded as he worked.

“Everything is going to be fine . . .” Yuuri murmured to himself, trying to calm himself down as he tended Viktor’s wounds, “It’ll be _fine_. It just . . . _looks_ bad. But . . . it’ll be fine,”

By the time he’d tied off all the bandages, The Dancer was almost as bloody as his Prince.

“There . . . it’ll be fine. This is how it always goes, right? Right. I-I’m sure it’ll be fine . . .”

“Mmn?” Viktor inquired, one eye cracking open.

“I just meant . . . we’re not at the end yet. If this were a story, I mean,” Yuuri explained, turning a trembling smile up at The Prince, “Like . . . like in 'La Grande Beauté Du Sud'. Things _look_ bad now . . . but – but there’s still time. For a-a happy ending, I mean . . . there’s still hope –”

Viktor froze.

“Yuuri – I-I wouldn’t say–”

“R-right. Right, I just meant that – that I know we’ll be okay. Because we’re together now, and we love each oth–”

“OH, _BEASTIE_! _Come out, come out, wherever you are_ –”

The air became glacial; so cold and so still Yuuri hardly dared to breathe.

_No._

_Impossible!_ How did he _–?_

“WHAT’S THE MATTER, _BEAST_? TOO _KIND_ AND _GENTLE_ TO FIGHT BACK?”

Yuuri turned two stricken eyes up at Viktor as J.J.’s voice echoed through the maze.

“H-how?” Yuuri whispered, “ _HOW_?”

Viktor put a finger to his muzzle, “Shh . . . just –”

“HOW ABOUT THIS, _MONSTER_ – I’LL MAKE YOU A LITTLE _DEAL_! SHOW YOURSELF _NOW_ , AND I’LL GIVE YOU THE MERCY OF A _QUICK DEATH_!”

“Don’t make a sound,” Viktor murmured, “maybe he won’t –”

“OR, YOU CAN STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE – SLOWLY, _PAINFULLY_ BLEEDING TO DEATH IN THE BUSHES – UNTIL I HUNT YOU DOWN!”

Yuuri’s frigid gaze darted from Viktor’s calf, to his side, to his paws to his arms – a mosaic of red and white and silver; the steady rise and fall of his chest now all but halted as The Prince held his breath.

“WELL, WHAT’LL IT BE, _CREATURE_?”

“Viktor, I-I have to _do_ something!” Yuuri urged, “I-I can’t let him find you! I can’t –!”

“FINE. HAVE IT YOUR WAY, _BEAST_! I’M THE GREATEST HUNTER THIS WORLD HAS EVER SEEN! I’LL FIND YOU! NO MATTER WHERE YOU RUN, NO MATTER WHERE YOU HIDE – I’LL FIND YOU! I’LL FOLLOW THE TRAIL OF YOUR BLOOD, LIKE I FOLLOW THE FLAMES OF MY HEART!”

Yuuri was petrified.

The-the blood; Viktor’s _blood_.

The gushing gash in Viktor’s calf; Yuuri had led J.J. _right to them_!

Couldn’t _fight_ , couldn’t _run_ , couldn’t _hide_ –

And there was _blood_ – so much blood – _everywhere_ ; on _Viktor_ , on the _hedges_ , on the _path_ , on _Yuuri_ , on his _clothes_ , on his –

The Dancer’s hands shone, slick and dark in the dawning light; a tiny bud of an idea slowly blooming to life.

“Stay here,” Yuuri commanded, “Don’t let him see you”.

Viktor snapped to attention, “What? No! Where are you going?”

The Dancer slowly wobbled to his feet.

“To stop J.J. –”

“Yuuri! No!”

Viktor tried to stand, but crumpled right back to the ground.

The Dancer looked down at his Prince; and though Yuuri’s heart was breaking a thousand different ways, he knew what had to be done.

“Don’t worry –”

“Yuuri, I –!”

“J.J. won’t find me. He won’t _hurt_ me –”

“But Yuu –”

“Trust me, Viktor – I’ll be alright . . . after all, I’m the only thing J.J. _isn’t_ willing to lose”.

The Dancer turned on his heel and made for the crossroad; refusing to look back at his heartbroken Prince.

He quickly retraced his steps – turning right, then right, then right, then right again – following the corkscrew of shrubbery back to the main path. With a flutter of fear, he peeked out onto the crossroad – eyes slowly scanning the shrouded lane.

There was no sign of J.J. anywhere.

Good.

The Dancer stepped out and looked down around his feet, searching for places where dark marbles of Merlot turned dirt into sludge. With a deft kick, he scattered more loose, crumbly earth overtop, wiping the blood trail out of existence.

Satisfied that the crossroad would no longer betray them, Yuuri headed south; bracing himself against the scratchy walls of the hedge maze and leaving smears of Viktor’s blood in his wake.

He reached a fork in the southern trail and quickly doubled back, stopping at the center of the crossroad once more; he frowned at the blood-marked hedges to the north and east, before heading down the path leading west. He held up a hand, wiping his outstretched palm on a tangle of needles; leaving them dark and sticky in the eerie dawn-soaked gloom.

The Dancer very nearly smiled.

The Prince’s blood still covered his hands; he could make a false trail, lead J.J. in the wrong –

“Yuuri”.

The Dancer flinched; his name snapped like a spark at the end of a fuse.

Slowly, he turned to face The Villain.

J.J. was limping, he was bleeding, and he still had his pistol drawn.

They faced one another down from opposite sides of the intersection – J.J. to the east, Yuuri to the west – held apart by nothing but the axis between them; the identical dirt trail which ran from north to south.

The Villain’s eyes roved across the path, from the drops of blood which vanished at his feet, to the inky red smears leading in all four directions, right up to The Dancer’s own crimson hands; concluding that he had indeed been misled.

Little did J.J. know, that just to the north – following the path which divided him from Yuuri – Viktor was recuperating in his shady little alcove; stiff and bloody and very much alive.

No matter what, The Dancer would keep his Prince from being discovered.

J.J.’s steely eyes met Yuuri’s own.

“ _Where is it_?”

“Where is _what_?”

“ _Where is it_ , Yuuri?”

“Where is _what_ , J.J.?”

“Don’t play coy with me!” The Villain roared, “The _BEAST_. Where is it?”

The Dancer took a deep breath.

“He’s _not_ a _beast_. His name is _Viktor_ . . . and I’m not telling you anything”.

They stood there, frozen in time; neither daring to give in first.

J.J.’s arm trembled from the weight of his pistol; he lowered the weapon with a sigh.

“Come on Yuuri . . .” he begged, “We both know how this ends. Don’t make it any harder than it has to be,”

“Funny,” Yuuri returned, “I was about to say the same thing to you.”

Sap-scented needles rustled all around as the early morning breeze whispered through the maze; anointing The Dancer and The Villain each in turn.

Despite his fatigue, J.J.’s eyes were hard with determination, “I won’t stop,” he vowed, “Not until I kill The Beast and everything goes back to the way it used to be. The way it _should_ be.”

“The way it _should_ be?” Yuuri challenged, “You mean that future version of us, married and living together in town – where you go out hunting every day, and I just sit there waiting for you to come home?”

“Look around, Yuuri!” J.J. snapped, “I don’t know what you _think_ you see in this place, or in that _thing_ . . . but one day you’re going to wake up and realize that there’s _nothing_ here for you – that you spent your life locked away in a dark, dreary tower with some hideous Beast, when you could have had a safe, comfortable life with me in The Village. And you’re going to regret it – _the biggest mistake of your life_ –”

“How _dare_ you? You don’t know _anythi_ –!”

“But it’s not too late!” J.J. insisted, “I still love you – even now, even after _everything_ you’ve put me through. I _still_ love you. We can still have _everything_ . . . if you just tell me where The Beast is. I’ll go _take care of it_ , and then . . . then we can go back to The Village and get married, just like we planned - forget this ever happened, and _finally_ have our happily ever after. Think of it Yuuri; just you and me, the way things are _supposed to be_ ”.

“. . . who ever said that things were _supposed to be_ that way?”

Yuuri’s soft whisper of words shattered the dawn-dusted silence.

“Wh-what?”

The Dancer’s eyes were even sharper than his tone, “Who, J.J.? Who was it? _Who decided that we were ‘meant to be together’_? Because I _sure as hell_ would like to know!”

The Hunter was dumbstruck.

“I . . . I –?”

“ _That’s right_ , J.J.,” Yuuri snarled, “ _You_ did. From the moment you announced your intentions that morning in The Marketplace, you’ve thought of _nothing else_. No matter how poorly matched we were, or many times I said ‘no’, or _who_ tried to talk you out of it – you just refused to let go. You couldn’t just settle for the truth and move on –”

“How could I?” J.J. demanded, “How could I just _give up_ when I _know_ we’re meant to be? You may not see it yet, but someday you will – and I won’t stop until you do. That’s how much I love you. That’s just the kind of guy I am. Nobody else takes the kind of risks that I do – I’m the only one who can handle it! I never stand still! I never settle! I wouldn’t know how to, even if I tried! _I love you_ –!”

“And has it ever _once_ occurred to you, that maybe _I just don’t love you back_?”

Though The Castle lacked its usual magic, Yuuri felt as though a garniture of ice had materialized around him; complete with a sword of frost and a shield of sleet.

J.J. wasn’t playing nice anymore; so neither would he.

“B-but you _do_ – you _will_!” J.J. babbled, “Just let me prove how much I–!”

“ _That’s not how love works, J.J._!”

“ _Then how do you explain your dancing_?”

“My . . . dancing?”

The Villain sighed, “The first time I ever saw you dance, it was an accident . . . but the longer I watched you, the more I started to . . . _feel it_ –”

Yuuri’s icy armour became glacial; just like his glare.

“I don’t know how to explain it . . . but as I watched, everything began to feel _different_ ,” J.J. continued, “It was like we were _connected_ – like you were speaking, and I could understand everything you were trying to say, even though you were moving instead of talking. It was so beautiful, so . . . _powerful_ , so _intense_. It was like – like my entire life, I was the only one who ever felt the way I did. But then I saw you dance and I _knew_ you understood, because you _moved_ the same way that I _felt_. I _know_ this sounds crazy, but . . . it was like seeing my own heart. Like I wasn’t _alone_ . . .”

Yuuri’s eyes slowly widened in epiphany.

“That’s why I fell in love with you,” J.J. declared, “That’s how I know we’re meant to be! Why _else_ would I feel that way? Why _else_ would that day be stuck in my head? Why _else_ would I love watching you dance so much?”

Yuuri shook his head, bile creeping up his throat and corroding him from the inside-out, “J.J., that - that feeling you’re describing; that _intensity_ , that _understanding_ , that _rush_ you got from watching me – that wasn’t _love_ . . . it was _catharsis_ ”.

“W-what? What is that? What do you – what are you trying to say?”

Yuuri felt like he might be sick.

“Everyone always thought I was odd, to love dance the way I do,” he murmured, “but that _feeling_ you experienced – _catharsis_ – you’re _not_ the only person who’s ever felt that way, J.J.. _Everyone_ has; that’s why art and music and literature _exist_. It’s what drives an artist to create. That _raw, visceral emotion_ – that’s the reason _why_ I dance”.

The Villain’s eyes were all steel; sifting through The Dancer’s words for any sign of a trap.

“See?” Yuuri urged, “You don’t love _me_ , J.J. – you love _art_. You love _ballet_. You just didn’t know it, because growing up in The Village, you never had the opportunity to–”

J.J. flinched, gripping his wounded shoulder tighter; as if Yuuri’s words had struck a physical blow.

“ _STOP_!”

The Hunter winced in pain; his breaths coming heavy as the first glimmer of real sunlight caressed the heights of evergreen boughs.

“H-how can you say that?” he accused, “After _everything_ I’ve done for you – everything I’ve _sacrificed_ – how can you _possibly_ look me in the eye and tell me I don’t love you?”

Yuuri took a single step forward.

“Because all you want is a _feeling_ – a feeling and some vision of the future that was never meant to be. You don’t actually want a _relationship_. You don’t want to understand my past, or spend your days with me, or build a future together. You _don’t_ love me. You don’t even really _like_ me –”

“ _STOP_!”

“You don’t even _know_ me!”

“I do so!”

“ _What colour are my eyes_?” Yuuri demanded, filled with a fire that threatened to consume him from the inside-out, “What’s my favourite food? Where did I get my atlas? Who’s older, me or Phichit? What was the first dance Minako ever taught me? What’s my sister’s name?”

His interrogation tore through The Villain like a barrage of bullets; ripping all his excuses to shreds.

The Dancer just kept glaring; devotion making him bold.

“ _How did she die_?”

J.J. was silent.

The sun rose another tentative inch.

“B-brown . . . the richest, warmest, most _beautiful_ brown I’ve ever seen –”

Yuuri jumped; a chill ran up his spine.

“V-Viktor!? _NO_! What are you –?”

The Prince had emerged just north of the crossroad; slowly limping along, using the hedges for support as he fought to make his way back to his beloved.

The Dancer’s cries didn’t quiet him.

“Katsudon . . . like his Okāsan used to make. The Atlas was passed down to him from his Ojīsan; who’d received it as a wedding gift. Yuuri is older; that's why he's so protective of Phichit. The first dance Minako ever taught him was a branle . . .”

Both The Dancer and The Villain stood frozen as The Prince spoke; the former with reverence, the latter with mortification.

“. . . his sister’s name is _Mari_ . . . and there was a terrible fire when she was fourteen years old”.

Yuuri’s eyes began to shimmer with tears.

“V-Viktor . . .”

His feet spurred him on toward his Prince, who still clung to the shrubberies for support.

Suddenly, The Dancer stopped dead in his tracks.

Faster than any thought possible, J.J. raised the pistol and locked Viktor in his sights.

The gleaming flintlock wavered ever-so-slightly in The Villain’s weak and weary arm.

“ _Not one more step_ ,” J.J. hissed; shame and fury scorching holes in the bloody earth at his feet.

Incredulous waves of anger twisted Yuuri’s stomach.

“ _What the hell is wrong with you_?” He roared, “How is _murdering Viktor_ going to solve any–?”

“It’s not _fair_!” The Hunter raged, “If it wasn’t for this _MONSTER_ , you would be mine! I loved you _first_ , I courted you _first_ , but you – you never even gave me a _chance_! Nothing I did was ever good enough for you! How was I ever supposed to win your heart, when you kept stacking the odds against me? I lost _everything_ trying to prove myself to you . . . _and you still won’t even believe that I love you_!”

The Dancer’s eyes were merciless.

“Fine, J.J. –” Yuuri seethed, “you _are_ in love –”

The Villain’s eyes lit up; his pistol remained in place.

“– But not with me – not with Katsuki Yuuri . . . you’re in love with The Playboy”.

J.J.’s eyes were filled with outrage; he snarled, about to speak – but Yuuri was quicker.

“You had _everything you ever wanted,_ J.J. – the house, the money, the reputation – but after a while, even _all that_ couldn’t hold your interest,” The Dancer hissed, “You got _bored_ ; you got restless and lonely, and there was nothing in our poor Provincial town that could satisfy you any longer. You wanted something new; _something more_ . . . and then you saw me dance. It was beautiful and exciting and _it made you feel alive_ , and you wanted to take it for your own – wanted to _hold onto that feeling_ forever. But you couldn’t separate the artist from his work. You started hunting The Playboy, and you got so caught up in the challenge of it that you couldn’t see your obsession for what it was. And no matter what you had to do, or who you had to hurt, you refused to give up the chase – because for the first time in your life, you saw an end to the loneliness . . . and you couldn’t bear to let that feeling slip away.”

The accusation lingered, sighing in the vastness between them, ghosting through evergreen brambles and rising with the yolky morning light.

Shadows grew long; the sun burning like a brand on J.J.’s back – glaring off The Dancer’s glasses and obscuring his big, beautiful brown eyes.

“Well . . . here I am, J.J. – you finally have me cornered," The silhouette of Yuuri taunted, "But, I wonder . . . what happens once you actually _catch_ me, hm? What happens when you realize I’m not the man you thought I was? When you start to understand what I've been saying all along? When you finally have to admit that _you don’t love me_?”

J.J.’s eyes grew wide and desperate; forced to face the truth of the thing he’d become.

A gust of wind, harsher than the others, swept down the lane like a chinook; rustling dense green pine and tussling The Dancer’s raven locks.

He took a single step forward.

“ _So_? What are going to do, J.J.?” He scoffed, his voice a tin-plated tackle-box of rusty screws and nails, “Swallow your pride and let me go . . . or find out _exactly how far you’ve fallen_ by murdering the man I lov–?”

“ _DON’T_!” J.J. begged, “ _Don’t say it_!”

Yuuri scowled, “Why?” he demanded, “Because if I _say it_ then you have to _hear it_? Have to _accept it_?”

The Villain could summon little more than a whimper.

The Prince was unafraid.

The Dancer was unmoved.

“Well, _too bad_ J.J. –” Yuuri declared, “ _I love Viktor Nikiforov_ more than you could possibly imagine. I will _never_ be yours – and there is _nothing_ you can do to change that.”

 

***

 

A little jolt of static thrummed through Viktor’s veins, causing the tips of his toe-pads to twitch.

The rising sun was suddenly too bright.

He tried to speak, but no words came as he scoured the depths of his language.

He tried to think, but sluggish thoughts soon drifted into dreamless sleep.

He tried to move, but his paws were frozen in place.

 

***

 

“ _NOOO_!”

The Villain’s heartbroken cry rang out through the maze; punctuated by a single shot.

Yuuri leapt for his Prince.

“VIKTOR!”

Then, The Dancer was landing.

Then, The Villain was shielding his eyes.

Then, The Prince saw nothing but white.

Onyx talons relinquished the loose earth beneath, as Viktor slowly began to ascend. Sunlight and snowflakes chased one another through the air all around him; looping through his horns, dancing over his claws, weaving around his furry limbs – raising him, as if in victory.

The light became brighter and The Prince lost all feeling in his extremities; blown cold and numb by a wintry gale of magic. It swept over him like a torrent, like an icy waterfall of redemption, washing away blood and fur and fangs to release the innocent man imprisoned beneath.

An arctic whisper filled Viktor’s lungs, as if he were learning to breathe for the first time; the whole world smelling of crisp sunshine and snowy mornings. A soft skin of frost slowly spread down his legs, across his chest, over his back, up his neck, along his scalp, across his cheeks to the tip of his nose; a whimsical tingle that scrubbed his soul clean and knit wounded tissues anew.

Slowly, the numbness began to fade, replaced by a prickly tingle as human blood pumped through his veins once more.

The white light began to fade and the world took shape as bare toes kissed umber-dark earth.

Pale, manicured fingertips stretched before The Prince’s eyes; curling and flexing in experimental waves.

He looked down to find that those human hands were attached to human arms, which were pinned to a human torso, which balanced on human legs.

His right hand flew to his chest; his heart was beating.

His left hand flew to his hair; short and silky and soft.

Two hands met on his face; smooth cheeks, slender nose, supple lips.

No claws. No horns. No fangs.

Viktor staggered as he swivelled to look behind him.

No tail.

 _NO TAIL_!

His heart began to soar.

His bright blue eyes filled with tears.

His lip quivered as he called out to his beloved.

“Y-Yuuri? Yuuri, _look_! I –”

But when he finally got his bearings, all he saw was a Villain.

Anguish had rendered J.J. mute; mouth slack, eyes pinned to the dirt.

The Prince followed The Villain’s horrified gaze, to where The Dancer lay bleeding between them.

In an instant, Viktor was on his knees, cradling his beloved.

The Dancer’s glasses were askew, his rumpled clothes further sullied by streaks of dry dirt; a dark red wellspring seeping up through the gunshot in his chest.

But his big, beautiful brown eyes were as bright as ever, sparkling like a starry sky as they came to rest on Viktor.

His slackened lips pulled into a sweet little smile.

“Mmn . . . pretty . . .” Yuuri wheezed, lifting pallid fingertips to caress Viktor’s cheek.

A weak, watery laugh escaped The Prince’s lips; the corners of it catching on a sob.

“Yuuri . . . it’s _me_ ”.

The Prince took his beloved by the hand. Yuuri’s fingers were as cold as the grave.

“I know,” The Dancer rasped, “Minako . . . was right. Your eyes . . . are the same”.

Viktor crumbled; those self-same eyes flooding with tears, even as he tried to blink them away.

He supported The Dancer across his lap; left arm cradling Yuuri’s head. With his right, Viktor gently released Yuuri’s fingertips; laying them reverently down, before pressing his own hand over Yuuri’s wound in a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding.

“Oh, Yuuri . . . my brave, beautiful Yuuri,” The Prince murmured, his voice thick and clouded with anguish, “D-don’t worry. Y-you’ll be alright, my love. My sunshine. Everything’s going to be okay. We’ll get you out of here and–”

The Dancer silenced him with a look. Viktor buried a sob in the crook of his arm; tears staining the soft white sleeve of his magically mended shirt.

“Don’t be . . . sad,” Yuuri coaxed, “you did it. You . . . broke the . . . spell”.

“No. _You_ did, Yuuri,” Viktor whispered, “You and I both. Together. We did it _together_ –”

Another sob choked The Prince, robbing him of his words.

“ _Love_ ,” he finally managed, “ _your_ love. _Our_ love. That’s what broke the spell”.

And when he dared to look back down, The Dancer was smiling.

Viktor couldn’t help but smile back.

His beloved could always make him smile – even in times as dire as these.

With a single-minded determination, Yuuri reached up to grab a fist-full of Viktor’s shirt.

He yanked as hard as his woozy limbs would allow; pulling The Prince down and meeting his lips with his own.

Viktor returned Yuuri’s eager kiss in kind; gentle and awe-struck and grief-stricken all at once – his heart so full to bursting, he felt as though the spell might break all over again.

But it didn’t.

Their first and only kiss was over all too soon.

Yuuri’s fierce grip began to wane with the effort; then his hand fell away altogether.

The Prince was forced to release him as The Dancer gasped for breath.

Viktor could hardly bear it.

How could it be possible, that the happiest moment of his life, was also the most unbearable?

He leaned up to press a kiss to The Dancer’s forehead, in lieu of another to his lips.

“I’m so . . . happy –”

A sweet whisper of words drew The Prince back; gazing into the big, beautiful brown eyes he so ardently adored.

“Y-Yuuri?”

The Dancer was still smiling, even as he fought to stay conscious.

“S-so happy . . . that I . . . could set you . . . free”.

Slowly, the sparkle began to fade.

Yuuri’s big, beautiful brown eyes grew dull, his once-graceful body went slack, and his lifeless lips smiled no more.

Viktor’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

His very soul felt like it had been torn asunder, ripped apart at the seams by the jagged shears of cosmic cruelty; severing the threads of fate and the fabric of time, fraying the edges of hope – pulling on loose ends to unravel his sanity, even as Viktor fought to stitch himself back together with sinews of longing and ribbons of regret.

His lungs shredded themselves on barbed-wire grief as he wailed in the sweet summer dawn.

Viktor whimpered, hugging The Dancer tight to his chest, as if he could stop Yuuri’s spirit from slipping away by just holding on tight enough. The Prince wept into raven hair, painting his shirt red to match Yuuri’s own.

A sickly sound buzzed about his ears; a pathetic, irritating thing, like the hum of a gnat.

“– mercy. Oh _mercy_ . . . w-what have I done? What have I –?”

“Get. Out.”

“I . . . I-I didn’t mean to. I –”

“GET. OUT.”

A swish of fabric, a shuffling of earth, and The Villain was gone.

When Viktor finally looked up, he was alone.

A lifetime later, he relinquished his beloved.

With steady hands and weeping eyes, The Prince reached out, removed Yuuri’s glasses, and closed The Dancer’s eyes. He gently brushed Yuuri’s bangs off his face, as if his beloved were merely sleeping.

For a moment, Viktor just sat there, envying the tranquil rustle of evergreen in the breeze; his own broken heart refused to beat, and Yuuri’s never would again.

After a great long while, The Prince took a deep breath, replaced Yuuri’s glasses, and rose to his feet; The Dancer draped stiffly over his arms.

Viktor turned to the east, making his way out of the hedge maze.

It was easy to find the way back; following the cold trail of his own beastly blood, still mottling the dry dirt underfoot.

The Prince bit his lip. Tears ran down his cheeks.

The life which was taken should have been his.

 

*****

 

Deep in the heart of The Northern Forest, a beautiful castle lay frozen in time.

It was a bewitched place; hollow and haunted – infested with shadows of days long past and plagued by memories of what used to be.

The Castle, The Prince, and all who dwelt within had been cursed; erased from memory, forgotten by the outside world, and plunged into a never-ending winter.

For twenty long years, they remained abandoned to the bleak embrace of ice and snow.

Then, one late summer morn, a miracle befell them.

After _lifetimes_ of waiting, the dawn of a brand new day rose on Nikiforov Manor once again; and with it, salvation.

A glorious golden zephyr descended upon The Castle – swift and righteous and warm – embracing the bloodied grounds like an old friend. Champagne-kissed sunlight cascaded through the halls, flooding the kitchen and the ballroom and the library and the courtyard; surrounding The Castle and swallowing it whole.

Battle-scorched earth, decimated chambers, ash-covered corridors – all were restored as the menacing spectre of ruin finally let loose its hold; forever banished by the power of true love.

And within those mended walls, occurred something even greater yet.

The doors to freedom were thrown open as a thousand steadfast enchantments began to unravel - transforming objects into people, and doubt into glory, and sacrifice into triumph.

 

*****

 

The pink light of dawn coloured the sprawling courtyard with a soft blush.

The Castle was magnificent; truly a sight to behold as the rising sun glittered off the eternal ballroom windows.

The gleaming marble promenade stretched out before The Prince – wide and welcoming – like the golden road to redemption which he’d so stubbornly refused to walk.

Sunlight caught on the crystal waterfall of the gurgling great fountain, casting luminous rainbows across the summer-sweet courtyard.

Shouts of joy and laughter echoed out over the gardens, dancing over lush topiaries and blooming roses and creeping vines.

And there – just beyond the glare of the sunrise – on the white stone veranda, were a dozen happy, smiling faces.

Faces that Viktor once thought he would never see again; new friends and unexpected allies threaded through memories of days long past.

Masumi had Chris bent over in a deep kiss; the Maître D’s fingers fisted in long brunette locks, enthusiastically returning the affection in kind. Minako, Mila, Sara and Gerogi had all ambushed Yuri with a group hug - the scowling Kitchen Boy hollered for Otabek to save him, but the smirking Chamberlain merely piled on instead. Minami danced around in circles with Leo and Guang Hong, who were both dizzy from trying to keep up. Seung-gil rolled his eyes at their antics, only to have Phichit cajole him into a smile. Emil had his arms flung around Mickey, who for once in his life was not complaining; though he was turning a little bit blue in the face. Yakov and Lilia stood side by side, not moving, not touching, not saying a word, but each sporting their own proud little grin as they gazed out over the gardens. Makkachin raced between the happy groups, barking and jumping and slobbering on everyone in reach. She pounced on Nikolai, who fell on his keister with a booming laugh, despite his bad back; playfully scratching the old poodle’s ears as she nuzzled his chest.

Even Isabella Yang was there, propped up between Marcel and Captain Nishigori; the three villagers standing guard over the long-awaited celebration.

The Prince’s family was waiting for him.

But all Viktor could think about as he gazed upon the lively veranda, was one quiet winter’s eve, right in the middle of summer; spent with his beloved beneath a frozen moon and shimmering crystal sky.

What he wouldn’t give, for his Yuuri to have seen this.

The Prince slowed to a stop, just past the grand fountain; his feet refusing to carry him any closer.

He could let them have this, couldn’t he? Just one more moment of happiness before the truth tore them to shreds –

“Look! There they are!”

It was Phichit; his voice echoing far away.

Too far away to see the red stain on Yuuri’s chest for what it was.

A cheer rose up from the veranda. Viktor held his beloved tighter; squeezing his arctic eyes shut as they once again filled with tears.

The rabble grew louder as his family approached, skipping down white stone steps and dancing across smooth marble pavement to welcome the conquering heroes.

Viktor’s name echoed a thousand different ways on a thousand different tongues; both his and Yuuri’s together, harmonizing in a jubilant ovation to love. But as the congregation drew closer, the victorious hail of congratulations faded into speechless horror.

When the silence finally became too much to bear, Viktor opened his eyes.

They all stood before him now; the grief of his own heart written in kind across a dozen familiar faces.

At the head of the crowd stood Yuuri’s own Brother; his dark gray eyes awash in shock and anguish.

Viktor opened his mouth to speak, but his planned apology became a smothered sob. The Prince’s chest quaked as he wordlessly sank to his knees; cradling Yuuri’s body just as he had in the hedge maze.

Slowly, Phichit took one step forward.

Then another.

Then another.

Viktor forced himself to look up into The Inventor’s forsaken eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Viktor whimpered, “I’m _so sorry_ , Phichi – I . . . I _tried_ –”

But, where The Prince had expected an accusation, Yuuri’s Brother offered only sympathy. Phichit sank to his knees, one hand clasped on Viktor’s shoulder; as though _The Prince_ were the one most in need of condolences.

But The Inventor knew as well as the others, that it was well past the time for blame.

What was done was done.

There was nothing they could do now, except help one another heal.

The rest came together as well; Chris held Masumi close, stroking his long dark hair as The Head Butler wept on his shoulder. Mila held Georgi. Mickey held Sara; Emil held them both. Minami wrapped his arms around Makkachin, burying his face in her fur as the old poodle whimpered. Lilia allowed Yakov to place a heavy hand on her shoulder, and patted it with her own. Leo hugged Guang Hong with his right arm; with his left, he took Seung-Gil’s hand and squeezed. The Cellist squeezed right back; furious at the traitorous tears rolling down his own cheeks.

Nishigori had Minako wrapped up in a great big bear-hug, while Isabella shed stoic tears; eyes downcast as they splashed onto the gleaming stone below. Marcel continued to hold her upright; wiping his own tears away with the back of his puffy sleeve.

Otabek and Nikolai each placed a hand on either of Yuri’s shoulders; but the trembling Kitchen Boy shrugged them off and stomped away, furiously kicking a loose pebble back into the bushes. Both his best friend and his grandfather pretended not to notice the teardrops rolling down his cheeks.

Viktor swallowed hard, searching for any shred of his princely composure.

When he could find none, he imploded.

“ _Why_?”

“Vitya –”

“ _WHY_?” The Prince raged, “ _It’s not fair_! Why _him_? Why _Yuuri_? How could it –? Why am _I_ still – why was _I_ healed? And _he_ –! And _it_ –! The _spell_ –! _Why didn’t it_ –?”

“Yuuri wasn’t under the spell”.

All eyes turned to the sombre Huntress who had spoken.

“Look at me,” she explained, nodding to her newly bandaged arm, “look at Minako. Look at Marcel. Guess you had to be cursed for all the medicinal hocus-pocus to apply”.

Minako absently dabbed at her black eye; Marcel worried his spilt lip.

The other staff were all unscathed; despite their previous dings and dents and plucked feathers and cracked plectrums.

Viktor let out a sigh, hollow as a blown egg.

He looked back to his beloved Yuuri, growing colder in his arms by the second.

When at last he spoke again, his words were tight; stretched and broken as his voice cracked over his grief.

“It was supposed to be _me_ ,” he whimpered, “. . . the bullet was meant for _me_ ”.

Phichit sniffled hard; taking a deep breath as he looked up at The Prince.

“Well . . . like I said before,” he offered, “Yuuri is always saving other people . . . that’s just the kind of _stupid_ , _noble_ person he is –”.

Though his tone aimed for teasing, the words came out murky and flat.

A tear ran down The Prince’s cheek, splashing on to The Dancer’s own.

“But it – _it’s not fair_ ,” Viktor raged, “. . . he _saved_ me . . .”

“Not just you, Vitya . . . he saved us all”.

The Prince looked up, expecting to see Yakov’s ever-present frown. Instead, The Major Domo was subdued; his uncharacteristic tranquility almost a comfort in the wake of such a terrible tragedy.

Viktor closed his eyes and bowed his head.

He supposed that – in the end – that's what was most important.

The Prince slowly nodded his understanding; refusing to disrespect Yuuri’s sacrifice by indulging his own misery.

The sun continued to rise. The breeze continued to blow. The world continued to turn, and would keep on turning, despite the fact that Katsuki Yuuri was no longer in it.

It was all so terribly unfair.

Moment by moment, the world became quiet and motionless; the wind calmed, the sniffles ceased, and the fountain ceased it's babbling.

In the silence and the stillness of the summer-sweet courtyard, a faint chime began to sound; a discordant melody that danced just at the edge of consciousness – haunting and ethereal and melancholy.

Then – without warning – a sweet, lilting brogue rolled over the promenade.

“Ahh, so _here’s_ where you all ran off to!”

It was a voice born of music and mirth; an ethereal accent wreathed in quaint, homespun charm –

“I was about ready to give up, wandering ‘round that great, bloody castle of yours!”

– a voice The Prince had been praying never to hear again.

“Well, I must say, Viktor – wee lamb – this isn’t _quite_ what I’d expected . . . but, I s’pose you always were full of surprises!”

A glittering laugh followed, like the chiming of bluebells.

Viktor kept his eyes shut and his head bowed; as if by refusing to look upon her, he could ignore her existence altogether.

Beside him, he felt Phichit stir and rise to his feet.

“ _You_ . . . you’re the –?”

And though he asked, The Inventor had already guessed.

“That’s _her_ alright!” Yuri fumed, “ _That’s the hag who turned me into a teacup_!”

The assembly cried out with a collective rebuke.

“ _Yuri_!”

Viktor gasped; his eyes snapped open, ready to mitigate whatever damage the Kitchen Boy might have done.

Because sure enough, standing there on the elegant promenade before him, was none other than The Enchantress.

She was a majestic lady of the fey; golden and gleaming from her slippered feet to the tips of her pointed ears. All around her, the world came to a stand-still; as if even the idle specks of pollen and tiny motes dirt had been rendered speechless by her beauty.

Dandelion-bright curls tumbled down over her back like a cape; a crown of Paperwhite Narcissus and Baby’s Breath woven into her hair. Her tall, regal form was adorned by a gown of rippling honey and sunshine; the skirt layered to look like an overturned freesia flower – the fabric so fine it might as well have been woven from spider silk. Blithe, delicate features concealed the terrible truth of her power; the way she was able to rip a man’s life to shreds with nothing but the graceful flick of her willowy fingertips.

Her amber eyes glittered with mischief; the same as they had on that fateful morning twenty years ago.

Chris lurched forward, plastering one hand over Yuri’s mouth as he dragged The Kitchen Boy back into line.

“H-he didn’t mean that, my lady – of course!” The Maître D’ apologized, struggling against the squirming teenager in his arms, “You know how _children_ are. So _innocent_. So _forthright_. So – _BLECH_!”

Chris let out a yelp as Yuri licked his hand in retaliation. The Kitchen Boy quickly twisted out of his grasp, leaving The Maître D’ to wipe his defiled palm off on the knee of his breeches.

The Fey’s golden eyes danced between the two; her lips quirking up at the corners as she watched Yuri spit onto the flagstones, desperately trying to rinse the taste of Chris’ hand out of his mouth.

“Oh, the impetuousness of youth. You still have _a lot_ to learn, Master Plisetsky!” She giggled, cocking her head to the side as she gave the Kitchen Boy an appraising once-over, “But . . . I believe you’re well on your way”.

“Huh?” Yuri’s eyes narrowed petulantly.

“Never you mind, dear thing,” The Enchantress dismissed, turning to address the rest of the staff, “Now, let’s not further sully such an auspicious occasion by bickering about ‘ _who bewitched who_ ’ and ‘ _who was transformed into what_ ’. Let us be joyful, and merry, and –!”

“ _Joyful_?” Mila demanded.

“ _Merry_?” Sara challenged.

“Aye. _Joyful and merry_ ,” The Fey quipped, “You lot _are_ familiar with the terms, are you not?”

Minako was the one to answer.

“Apologies . . . we don’t exactly feel like _celebrating_ at the moment,” she warned.

The Enchantress raised one slender eyebrow. “And _why not_?” she chided, “Viktor’s broken the spell, after all! This is a time for gaiety and good cheer!”

“ _Gaiety_?” Phichit balked, “ _Good cheer_? My brother is –”

“Yes . . . I know,” The Enchantress interrupted, gently tempering Phichit’s objection, “I must admit, that was something even _I_ had not foreseen. Apparently, young Master Katsuki is just as full of surprises as our dear Viktor. Which, unsurprisingly, does not surprise me in the least,” she turned back to The Prince with a blinding smile, “Wouldn’t you agree, wee lamb?”

The Prince closed his eyes reflexively, as if he had been struck; bracing himself against her golden radiance.

When he did not answer, she prodded him again.

“Viktor? Ma wee lamb? Is everything –?”

And the way she said his name – like she was _allowed_ to say it, like they were _friends_ – it ate at his insides like acid; an insult burned into his very soul like a brand.

“. . . just tell me what I did”.

The plea echoed over polished stone and whispered through evergreen hedges, before plunging into the depths of the fountain; submerging the courtyard in silence.

The Enchantress’ face fell ever-so-slightly.

“Viktor?” She prompted, gliding half a step closer “. . . I’m afraid I don’t follow”.

The Prince’s lip quivered as he forced himself not to cry.

 _Mercy_ ; what was she saying?

What was she even _doing_ here?

Why couldn’t she just _go away_ and _let them mourn in peace_?

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Viktor bit out, “Whatever I _said_ . . . whatever I _did_ to insult you, I’m – _I’m sorry_. Just – please – _just tell me what I did to deserve this_ ”.

The world held its breath, waiting for The Fey to answer.

“Ah . . .” The Enchantress sighed, amber eyes alight with understanding, “I see what’s happened here . . .”

She drifted over to The Prince; still broken and kneeling on the polished promenade – eyes glued to the red stain of Yuuri’s wound.

“Viktor, look at me,” she commanded.

He did as he was told.

“Now _listen_ ,” she urged, “ _You’ve done_ _nothing wrong_ , wee lamb. This is no punishment . . . _this is your reward_.”

Viktor’s arctic eyes narrowed in fury.

No, it . . . it _couldn’t_ be true; _could it_?

What sort of _sick_ –?

What part of _this_ could possibly be considered a –?

“I . . . _I don’t understand_ ,” he growled, averting his eyes once again.

The Fey tiled her chin; looking from the defeated Prince, to the sombre congregation, to the cloudless sky above – deciding that, _perhaps_ , an explanation was necessary.

“Viktor,” The Enchantress prompted, “You remember the morning you met an Old Beggar Woman in your parlor.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes”.

“I offered you one of my three worldly possessions, as a reward for your kindness. You remember what they were.”

Again, it wasn’t a question.

“A coin, a stone . . . and a rose”.

“Precisely,” The Enchantress confirmed, “Each one a simple, ugly trinket – and each one enchanted to bestow a Great Reward . . . in return for overcoming a Great Trial”.

The world was silent but for the gurgle of the fountain.

Viktor’s eyes went wide; his mouth went dry, his fingers went numb, his –

“A _WHAT_?”

The furious voice of Yuri Plisetsky mangled the moment once more.

But _this time_ , he was not the only one to voice an objection.

“Did you say a . . . _a trial_?”

“Then . . . this was –”

“– _Some kind of sick test_?”

“ _Why would you do that_?”

“Do you have _any idea what you’ve put him through_!?”

“Pfft! Some ‘ _reward_ ’, you _twisted son of a_ –!”

 “You didn’t even _tell him_! Not one _word_ –!”

 “YOU COULDN’T HAVE JUST _GIVEN_ HIM SOMETHING LIKE A _NORMAL_  PERSON?”

The Enchantress rounded on the seething assembly.

They quieted under her unsettling amber gaze; their fury no less mitigated. A dozen mutinous eyes pinned her in place, demanding justice for their much abused Prince.

The Enchantress simply shrugged.

“Aye. I could have,” she replied, not rattled one bit, “I could have thanked him with a lucky coin, or a medallion of power or a bouquet of never-fading roses . . . but, tell me, where’s the good in that?”

Once again, Yuri led the charge.

“What do you mean, ‘ _where’s the good in that_ ’?” he demanded, hissing like a feral cat, “ _What the hell is wrong with_ –?”

“Baubles and trinkets may fall by the wayside,” she explained, stopping The Kitchen Boy before he said something he’d regret, “The Trial of the Rose has given Viktor something far more precious than some whimsical doodad”.

“Oh yea?” The teen sneered, “ _Like what_?”

The Enchantress smiled.

“The one thing he needed most of all”.

Viktor could find no lingering eloquence to puzzle out his predicament, so merely blinked up at The Fey in response.

“I . . . wha–? I don’t –”

The Enchantress turned her shining golden eyes on him; bright and burning and so like the sun.

“Remind me, Viktor, wee lamb,” she sighed; not exasperated, but amused, “ _what were the terms of my spell_ , again?”

Viktor’s tongue turned to ash; the answer pooling in the pit of his stomach.

“. . . If . . .” he reluctantly recited, “if you can learn to _love_ another . . . and earn their _love_ in return . . . then the spell will be broken . . .”

The Enchantress looked incredibly smug.

“Now you understand,” she praised, “See, The Coin would have granted you wealth beyond your wildest imagination for the completion of its Trial; The Stone would have granted you immeasurable strength for the same. The Rose, as you’ve figured, grants you the truest, purest, most genuine love; not conjured or charmed or tainted or bewitched, but merely located and summoned home”.

She turned back to the defiant masses, “You ask me,  _true love_ is a far cry better than some shiny trifle”.

Viktor bit his own lip to keep from screaming.

Thankfully, Phichit rose to his defense.

“But why make him endure a Trial at all?” The Inventor puzzled, “Why not just _bestow_ Viktor with true love and be done with it?”

The Enchantress turned to Phichit with gentle eyes.

“Because, ma sweet boy . . . _Great Rewards_ are not the same as trinkets or tokens or trophies,” she replied, “They cannot simply be given; they can only be _earned_ ”.

Phichit’s next breath was a hiss; he looked almost as wrecked as Viktor felt.

“But . . . _why_?”

“Because Great Rewards have _the power to shape the future,_ ” The Enchantress explained, “Great Wealth, Great Strength, Great Love – any one of these gifts can _change the course of a life_. So, we must ensure that such raw potential will be put to good use, must we not?”

Phichit opened his mouth to protest, and immediately closed it again. Likewise, the other staff had ceased their rumblings; even Yuri had lapsed into thoughtful – though petulant – silence.

“Take our dear Viktor, here,” The Enchantress continued, illustrating her point with a gesture to the browbeaten Prince, “Certainly, he was accomplished before – rich and handsome and powerful – but he never had any hope of acquiring the love he so desperately needed; not with that _frigid_ disposition of his. And sure, I could have brought love right to his doorstep – I could have played the matchmaker, or altered the threads of fate – but it would have been all for naught. He just would’ve gone an’ let that love slip right through his cold, fastidious little fingers.

"Because - as any poet will tell you – _finding_ love is easy. The hard part is _nurturing_ it – and _that’s_ something Viktor had to learn how to do on his own.

"Painful and arduous as they were, the rigors of The Trial were necessary. They damn near killed our poor wee lamb; but they also _taught_ him, and _tempered_ him, and _transformed_ him – until he’d finally become the type of man who was ready to embrace such a wondrous, life-changing gift – and endure all the hardships that come right along with it”.

The congregation shuffled in sullen silence; unable to argue her point and none too pleased about it either.

Viktor felt the patchwork twine of his existence slowly start to unravel; he swallowed hard, digesting her words and tasting nothing but crow.

“Now do you understand, my dears?” The Fey implored, “No human alive can expect to so drastically improve their fortunes, if they insist on remaining the same person they’ve always been. And so, Great Rewards can only ever be won through Great Trials – and even greater transformations – that is simply the way of it”.

And although Viktor hated the presumption of it, he had to admit; it made a twisted kind of sense.

Before the spell, he’d never been vicious or wicked or cruel – but neither was he compassionate or welcoming or warm. By locking his emotions away, he had attained Princely perfection, and everything that came with it.

Everything . . . except for love.

Now, Viktor could only look back on the man he had once been with shame – an empty man, a hollow man – a man who smothered his joy and affection and anger and sorrow under layers of etiquette and cordiality.

How _pathetic_ that man had truly been; praise and power and perfection be damned.

Gazing at his beloved Yuuri, The Prince wondered how he ever could have consented to live such a life.

“You knew, even back then, that I would choose the rose?”

His words were a prayer answered; awed and anguished all at once, breaking the stillness of the summer morn.

“Hmm . . .” The Enchantress teased, scrunching her face in mock contemplation, “let me think; a cold, unyielding loner of a Prince, who already had more power and riches than he possibly knew what to do with? I _wonder_ . . . what _would_ he pick?”

Her smirk was infuriating; Viktor didn’t think he cared for her tone.

When he said nothing more, The Enchantress’ smile melted from smug to sympathetic.

“No, wee lamb,” she confided, “I had nary a clue. I _offered_ ; you _chose_. That’s the way it works. You simply reached for _what you needed most._ An’ frankly, the _last_ thing you needed was to endure an _entire Trial_ to learn finance or fortitude when you’d already figured those out for yourself –”

“ _AND WHAT ABOUT US_?”

The tell-tale snarl of Yuri Plisetsky echoed in the air once again; interrupting The Enchantress and stopping her short.

She turned to face him with the world’s most congenial smile, “what _about_ you, dear thing?” she purred.

Her chipper demeanor further incensed the furious Kitchen Boy, “In case you didn’t notice, we all endured this Trial too!” he huffed, “Twenty years stuck in that _stupid Castle_ with _stupid Viktor_ under your  _stupid spell_ –!”

“Well, of course!” The Enchantress chirped, “You didn’t expect me to make the poor wee lamb endure such a thing _alone_ , did you? After all, it’s much easier to learn from the Trials of others, rather than undertake them all yourself, don’t you think?”

Her grin twisted from sweet to smug in the span of a second.

“So?” Yuri demanded, refusing to be cowed, “What’s our reward? What do we get?”

“ _Get_?” The Enchantress repeated, with the same infuriating naïveté, “Why, Master Plisetsky! Do you mean to tell me that you all have gained _nothing_ from this experience? That _no one else_ here has changed their own fortunes? That _none of you_ have been touched by Katsuki Yuuri’s life, or enriched by his love?”

The Kitchen Boy blanched with embarrassment; looking very much like he’d just swallowed his own tongue.

“Well, _OBVIOUSLY_!” He snapped, “I didn’t mean –! I just –! MOST PEOPLE DON’T GET TURNED INTO TEACUPS!”

Finally, The Enchantress surrendered. 

"Yes, I _understand_ dear thing," she drawled, "But you, like so many others, call transformation a punishment out of instinct – when _nothing_ could be further from the truth. For change is the way of nature. It’s all around you, whether you like it, or no. Day becomes Night. Winter becomes Spring. Life becomes Death . . .”

The Fey looked to Yuuri now; properly acknowledging his sacrifice for the first time since her arrival.

“In the same way . . . a _Beast_ becomes a _Prince_ , a _Dancer_ becomes a _Hero_ . . . and a _Hunter_ becomes a _Villain_ ”.

A dozen hearts stopped; a dozen questions perched on a dozen tongues.

The one to finally speak was Isabella Yang.

“What do you . . ? How could you _possibly_ know-?”

“Well . . . that _particular_ young man isn't so very unique," The Enchantress mused, "I see it all too often; someone who chooses to mourn the past, rather than welcome the future. Someone who clings to what is ‘supposed to be’. Someone who tries to hold on to who they were and what they had and what they wanted, rather than embrace who they might become, and what they might gain, if they could just bring themselves to let go; to endure the hardships of adaptation. But time does not stop, and neither should we, my dears; to remain the same as you’ve always been, is to reject the person you might have otherwise become – and that is a very grave thing indeed. For if one so stubbornly refuses to reconcile the reality of change with their own dreams and desires, they might one day wake up and find that the rest of the world has moved on . . . while they have been left behind”.

Isabella nodded, swallowed hard and looked away.

“However . . .” The Enchantress continued, “we are _all_ bound to err some time or other – even ones such as I. And _that_ is when we can finally begin to see transformation for the gift it truly is; because where there is _change_ , there is _choice_ – and where there is _choice_ , there is _hope_ - 

“A brilliant _Inventor_  becomes a _Mad Tinker_ , who becomes a life-saving _Strategist_.

A _Huntress_ becomes a _Guardian_.

 _Colleagues_ become _Rivals_ , who become _Lovers_ . . . who will soon become _Husbands_.

A runaway _Countess_ becomes a _Prima Ballerina_ , who becomes a _Courtier_ , who becomes a _Tutor_ , who becomes a _Mentor._

A _Kitchen Boy_ becomes a _Teacup_ , who turns back into a _Kitchen Boy_ . . . who will become whatever he _chooses_ to be.”

The Enchantress winked, and the surly teen very nearly stopped scowling.

Then she continued, “That is why we must challenge ourselves to rise to our own trials – to overcome our obstacles and hone our talents, to remain vigilant in the face of adversity and continue to learn and grow and try until we have become the person we are meant to be. For, if circumstance can change once, it can change twice, or thrice, or even a thousand times over. So be hopeful, my dears, and take comfort in the knowledge that calm seas never made sturdy ships. Though you feel it fair to curse The Tempest, remember that it was she who taught you how to endure. You haven’t been forsaken, nor dashed upon the rocks; you’ve gained the secrets of the sea, and learned to navigate the tide”.

Finally, The Enchantress turned back to The Prince.

Now, she spoke directly to him.

“You have endured the Trial of the Rose and emerged victorious. You are not as you once were. You have been changed – now you are _richer_. Now you are _stronger_. Now you are _loved_.”

Another torrent of tears sprang to Viktor’s eyes.

He blinked them away, looking once more to his beloved Yuuri.

It was true; Viktor _had_ been changed.

Irrevocably changed . . . for the better.

From the moment Yuuri had set foot in his dark, dreary castle, his beloved started to change him. From the soft curve of his smile to the sharp edge of his wit, from the smooth glide of his step, to the rough press of his lips; Yuuri had reached into him and found things that even Viktor _himself_ hadn’t known were there: things both auspicious and sinister, charming and repulsive, invincible and fragile, honest and dangerous and brilliant and tarnished.

And never once did his Hero flinch or falter or turn away.

Yuuri had changed him – _love_ had changed him – slowly and suddenly, bit by bit and all at once.

And at the end of it all, his beloved just smiled; smiled and kissed him and declared himself _happy_.

Viktor reached down, absently brushing Yuuri’s bangs out of his forever-shut eyes.

“ _Thank you_ ”.

Though whether he spoke to his beloved, or to The Enchantress, or to himself, Viktor wasn’t entirely certain.

His prayer of gratitude ghosted across the gleaming marble – barely audible above the soft din of the fountain – and was inexplicably answered by a lyrical laugh; the one which sounded so much like the chiming of bluebells.

“For what, wee lamb? I haven’t done anything yet”.

The Enchantress was looking down at him with a sparkle in her eyes; Viktor could only hope that it was mirth and not malice.

“W-what do you mean?”

 “I mean _why I’m here_ , of course!” The Enchantress sighed, “Apologies, wee lamb, but I didn’t travel _all this way_ just for the pleasure of your shining company,” she teased.

“. . . then, why did you come?”

The question was soft as it fell from Masumi’s lips.

The Enchantress blinked, almost as if she had forgotten the wary congregation penning her in on the promenade.

“Well you see, I’ve been initiating The Trials for millennia,” she explained, blithe and bonny as ever, “Normally, The Trial’s analogue – in this case, The Rose – will gauge the progress of The Trial, and remove the strictures of the spell once the terms have been met. But this time ‘round, The Rose blinked right back into my pocket without finishing it's job, the _daft thing_ ,” she tittered dismissively, as if The Rose were a naughty child, rather than the cosmic entity to which the fate of the entire castle was bound, “Some outlying variable or other, surely – _so_ I came to discover the cause for myself. And _I must say_ – in all my eons, I’ve never seen _anything_ quite like . . . _this_.” She vaguely gestured to Yuuri’s gory waistcoat, “Not to put too fine a point on it, but you lot are . . . well . . . rather _dramatic_ , aren’t you?”

Indignant muttering filled the courtyard.

“Even so,” The Enchantress continued, “when Viktor accepted the gift of the rose, he and I entered into an unbreakable accord. And I, being one of the Fey, am bound by my name to honor that agreement _to the letter_.”

She turned back to The Prince, “Now that you have overcome your Great Trial, there is the matter of bestowing your Great Reward . . .”

Viktor’s brain rumbled with confusion while his heart fluttered with hope.

Wait.

Did she mean –?

Was she _actually_ –?

Could she _really_ –?

“ _WHAT_?” Yuri demanded, once again screaming Viktor’s thoughts to life, “But Katsudon is –”

“ _I know he is_ ,” The Enchantress hissed; quickly catching herself before continuing. She took a deep breath, demurely cleared her throat, then proceeded with an affable purr, “However . . . the terms of my agreement with The Prince were not fulfilled; therefore, I am _honour bound_ to correct that most _egregious_ error. Normally, The Trial of The Rose resolves with much less . . . _bloodshed,_ but this particular bit of _unseemliness_ was hardly Viktor’s design; much less within his control. I can’t deny him just because some _feathered upstart_ decided to go and blow a bunch of holes all over the–”

“ _THEN WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU WAITING FOR_?” Yuri demanded, “MAKE WITH THE MAGIC ALREADY!”

The Enchantress pouted, dropping grace by a single degree, “Well, what do you think I’ve been _trying_ to do?” she grumbled, “But you all had so many questions – not to mention _accusations_ – did you _not_ want me to answer them?”

“ _Can you really bring him back_?”

The words were out before Viktor could stop them; his heart soaring even as caution urged him to clip its wings.

The Enchantress fell silent.

Slowly, she turned back towards him.

“Don’t misunderstand, wee lamb . . .” she cautioned, “for succeeding in The Trial of The Rose, you are to be bestowed with true love – _not_ any one specific person. Katsuki Yuuri is just a man, the same as any other. He has his good parts and he has his bad. I am not giving _him_ to you. People are not ‘payment’. Yuuri is not a ‘reward’ –”

Viktor’s face fell; his hopes once again dashed like the shattered pieces of his broken heart.

“However . . .” The Enchantress smirked, “To nevermore face the trials and tribulations of this world alone; but to stand against the chaos with a loving and devoted partner? Having the opportunity to build a future with the one you adore; someone who not only returns your affections, but does so _unconditionally_? To finally live the dreams you’ve waited so long for; to arrive at your own ‘someday’ hand-in-hand? Now _that_ is a _very great reward_ indeed. And it just so happens that you – Viktor Nikiforov – can have none of that, without Katsuki Yuuri by your side.”

Euphoria rendered The Prince speechless as he gazed up at the golden goddess before him.

“So!” The Enchantress sang out, clapping her hands together, “Stand back now . . . give us some air . . . it’s about to get _very_ bright!”

 It took Viktor a moment to process the enormity of what the Enchantress had offered, and longer still for him to release his beloved – but soon, he was gently laying The Hero down and moving as instructed.

The Prince scrambled backward along the promenade on his hands and tush; never once daring to take his eyes off of Yuuri. Likewise, Phichit and Yuri both retreated back into the crowd.

Suddenly, Viktor fumbled to a screeching halt; painfully colliding with Chris’ knees and nearly knocking The Maître D’ over in his haste. Chris lurched forward with a startled “ _sacrebleu_!”; bracing himself on The Prince’s shoulders in order to stay upright.

In an instant, Viktor’s alabaster fingers flew to Chris’ hand, clutching it in a painful vice.

His _hand_ ; _Chris’ hand_.

Not his _candle_ ; not his _sconce_ or his _column_ or his _labrum_ . . . but his _hand_.

The Maître D’ squeezed right back.

Viktor held his breath and clung to Chris for dear life, certain that the world was about to shake apart; that any moment hope would vanish once more and plunge him right back into the bloody murk of his nightmares.

The Enchantress swept over to the lifeless Hero, slow and respectful and reverent. Despite her benevolent intentions, Viktor could have sworn she was purposefully testing his patience.

Finally, she came to rest on the far side of Yuuri’s body. For a moment she merely stood there, looking down upon The Hero’s silent form with a proud little smile; as if the two of them shared some clever secret.

Then, she looked toward the cloudless sky, reaching one dainty hand up, as if to pluck a berry off a vine. Instead, her thumb and forefinger closed around a single particle of sunshine; drawing it out of the air and into the cup of her other hand.

After a moment, she tipped her glowing palm; the sunlight seeping through her fingers like rivulets of water. A trickle of honeyed ale became a torrent of golden magic, sweeping over The Hero and drenching him in its splendour.

The Champagne-kissed enchantment swirled around Yuuri a moment more, before settling over his skin and seeping into his bones.

Then, The Hero began to glow – brighter and brighter by the second – until he shone more radiantly than the sun.

Viktor didn’t dare shield his eyes.

Soon, the light began to fade, the magic came to rest, and the world reverted back to its mournful tableau once more.

After a moment, The Enchantress nodded and dusted off her hands; apparently quite satisfied with her work. She turned and swept away.

Yuuri still lay motionless on the pavement.

Every bone in Viktor’s body turned to jelly; he let loose Chris’ hand and launched himself toward his beloved. On hands and knees, the desperate Prince clamoured across polished marble.

In an instant, he was at Yuuri’s side.

The Hero’s eyes were still shut.

A pang of dread rippled through Viktor’s chest as he looked down upon his beloved; praying to every Mercy in the universe that Yuuri had not somehow slipped beyond the magic’s grasp.

“Y-Yuuri?” he whispered, ghosting a caress across The Hero’s cheek, “W-wake up my love. My _sunshine_ –”

Yuuri’s skin was warm.

Viktor very nearly snatched his hand back in surprise.

Instead, he allowed a cautious smile to break over his mournful brow.

His fingertips finished their trail across Yuuri’s cheek, then dipped to run along his jaw, down his neck, and onto his chest. The simple blue waistcoat that his beloved wore was no longer marred with intolerable Merlot; cleansed and mended and looking like new.

Below, Viktor could hear Yuuri’s heart beat; feel the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

The Prince bit his lip, watching with baited breath.

Surely, this was too good to be true.

“. . . Mmn . . . Viktor?”

The Prince practically collapsed; ducking his eyes as though the miracle might unravel the instant he beheld it.

Crystal tears slipped through long silver lashes.

“. . . Viktor? Why ’re you . . . sideways?”

The Prince choked on a laugh. His throat ached with the stain, as if his vocal chords had decided to strike after so much abuse.

“. . . or . . . or ‘m _I_ sideways?”

Viktor finally raised his head; daring to gaze upon the face of his newly recovered love.

Yuuri’s big, beautiful, brown eyes were open; lidded and heavy as they were, they still sparkled away as he drank in the sight of his Prince.

Then, The Hero’s brow knit together in perplexity.

“Yup . . .” he decreed; voice raspy with the vestiges of death, “One of us is _defin’ly_ sideways . . . maybe ups-sides-down”.

Viktor shook with silent laughter. Too overwhelmed to speak, he simply reached forth, brushing his beloved’s bangs out of his eyes with a bright, beaming smile.

Yuuri gave a contented sigh as his eyes slid shut; not with oblivion, but with fatigue.

“. . . is pro’ly me,” The Hero murmured, “Most likely me. 'M the one whose sideways. But I dunno how to not . . .”

“It’s okay, my love,” Viktor soothed, steadily stroking Yuuri’s raven-dark hair, “Everything is alright. You just be as sideways as you want to right now–”

“Is it ‘cause ‘m dead?”

Viktor’s hand froze upon The Hero’s crown.

“The . . . the sideways-ups-sides-down,” Yuuri clarified, “is ‘cause ‘m dead?”

Viktor’s lip trembled, “N-no. No, you’re not dead, my love. You’re –”

“J.J., he . . . shot me,” The Hero murmured, heavy eyes blinking back open. It took a moment too long for them to find Viktor’s again, “I know it. I remember”.

“H-he did,” Viktor whispered, “b-but you’re not –”

“I don’ think he meant to,” Yuuri rambled, his nose scrunching at every little scent which tickled it, “but I . . . died. And now you’re here and you’re sideways and you shouldn’t be dead too. You’re alive. The real you is. But this Viktor – _You-Viktor_ – you’re a . . . vision? A sideways vision. Or apparition. Or dream. Or something . . .”

The Hero trailed off; dizzy eyes squinting in the sun.

“A nice once though!” he quickly amended, “. . . I’d dream you forever, if I could . . .”.

Viktor’s heart caught in his throat; Yuuri shifted uncomfortably on the marble beneath.

“Mnnnn . . . my head hurts . . .” The Hero whined, promptly abandoning his previous train of thought.

The Prince smirked, “Forgive me, dearest . . . but if you were dead, I very much doubt you would still have to contend with such trifling things as _headaches_ ,” he teased.

Yuuri’s eyes narrowed in suspicion; apparently, The Prince had made a very good point.

Slowly, gently, Viktor took both of Yuuri’s hands in his, laying The Hero’s palms flat to his own thrumming chest.

Yuuri’s eyes grew wide.

“V-V-Vi-Vik-Viktor?” he warbled, desperately searching his Prince’s face; hardly daring to believe the truth of his own beating heart. Tears sprang to his eyes, “Am I . . . a-am I–?”

The Prince nodded emphatically, mirroring Yuuri’s tears with his own, “You are. _You are_ , my love –”

Suddenly, The Hero bolted upright; throwing all his weight forward in a frantic attempt to sit up.

Viktor caught Yuuri as he flailed; slowly coaxing his beloved up and reeling him in.

The Hero took a moment to orient himself, before throwing his arms around Viktor – heavy and rigid – clinging to The Prince like he was terrified to let go. Viktor held him tight; saturating The Hero’s shoulder with torrential tears of joy.

They stayed like that for an eternity; locked together in one another’s sweet embrace.

“H-how?” Yuuri demanded, finally pulling away; arms still looped protectively around Viktor’s neck, “how am I –? How can I be –?”

Viktor cleared his throat authoritatively.

“Katsuki Yuuri,” he chided, “After _everything_ you and I have been through – all the magic and chaos and battles and blackmail and nightmares and fires and woe – do you _honestly believe_ I would let something as _trivial_ as _death_ keep me from the man I love?”

Viktor’s mock stringency dissolved into a wide, wonderful grin.

Yuuri beamed right back; his smile shining brighter than the sun.

The Hero met The Prince’s lips with his own; surprising Viktor with another breathtaking kiss.

In his enthusiasm, he ended up knocking them over; pinning The Prince beneath him on the sun-drenched promenade.

And for the very first time in his life, Viktor Nikiforov had found both life and love.

Yuuri’s fingers resting at his nape, Yuuri’s joy made plain upon his lips, Yuuri’s heart laid bare for all the world to see – it was bliss; pure, unadulterated bliss.

Until they were interrupted by a rather impertinent wolf whistle.

Yuuri squeaked; quickly jerking away in embarrassment. Viktor pouted and huffed an exasperated sigh; the back of his head hitting marble with a defeated ‘ _thud_ ’.

“Oh, no, no, no! Don’t stop on our account, mes chères!” a bright tenor teased.

“Yea, no rush,” another, much more _sarcastic_ voice agreed, “Take all the time you want. We can wait. Not like _anyone else_ here cares about Yuuri or anything –”

“Ugh! You two _idiots_ could at least _warn us_ before you start _sucking face_!”

Viktor rolled his eyes.

Above him, Yuuri had buried his face in his hands; cheeks flushing like hot coals as he straddled his Prince in the middle of the courtyard.

Gazing up at his beloved, Viktor couldn’t help but smile; impervious to the chaos all around as affection tempered his vexation.

“ _Yuuri_ –” he beckoned, drawing out the long ‘u’ as he cooed his lover’s name, “Are you alright, my sunshine?”

The Hero groaned and nodded behind his hands.

“You know . . . I am a Prince again, Yuuri,” Viktor teased, “just say the word and they’re all fired”.

A soft snort broke through the barrier of Yuuri’s fingertips; Viktor gently reached up and pulled them away.

His Hero was still blushing.

 _Mercy_ , Viktor loved that blush.

He loved everything about Yuuri.

“Nah . . .” The Hero murmured, “You can’t. Not all of them . . . I mean, Phichit doesn’t even work for you”.

Viktor beamed up at his beloved, “Well then,” he sighed, “I suppose we’ll just have to get up and face them”.

Yuuri bit his lip and nodded, sheepishly sliding off his Prince. Viktor stood and held a hand out to him, pulling The Hero to his feet.

For a moment, Yuuri swayed on unsteady legs, regaining his balance after his fleeting brush with death. Viktor never let go of his hand.

Slowly, they began to turn around.

Suddenly, The Hero froze.

“V-Viktor? Is that –?”

The Prince followed Yuuri’s gaze to where it rested on the beautiful fey who was so casually gracing the courtyard with her presence.

“Ah . . . yea,” Viktor confessed.

“So . . . so _she’s_ the reason I’m –?”

“That would be accurate, yes”.

“Magic?”

“Precisely”.

Yuuri nodded, slow and steady like a scale mid-balance.

“Alright . . .” he surrendered, “. . . that’s . . . good, then?”

He raised a single hand in greeting, thanking The Fey with a stiff, uncertain little wave.

The Enchantress giggled, her amber eyes flashing with amusement as she gleefully waved right back; in an instant, Yuuri was beet red again.

“Is she . . . safe?” Yuuri murmured through a tight, nervous smile.

“Yes?” Viktor whispered back, “Though I would still advise _against_ accepting any of her ‘gifts’.”

The Enchantress looked between The Hero and The Prince; satisfied that her work at last was done. With a shallow nod and a fond little smile, The Fey began to vanish; fading away until she became one with the early morning sunlight.

The wind rusted through the gardens; a chime sounded somewhere in the distance, and then The Enchantress was gone.

The very next second, Yuuri fell to the ground with a yelp.

“ _ARF, ARF, ARF, ARF_!”

A very excitable Makkachin pinned him down; laving sloppy kisses all over The Hero’s blushing face.

“M-Makka?” Yuuri gasped, scratching her soft, fluffy ears, “Look at you! You’re a _poodle_ now!”

“Arf, arf, _awoo_!” Makkachin agreed; tail wagging high in the air like a flag in the wind.

Viktor’s heart nearly burst.

“Hey – w-wait just a–! Makka! Makka, stop! Just let me– _eep_!” Yuuri let out a little squeak, catching his glasses right in the nick of time, as The Poodle’s impatient affection knocked them off his nose.

“Aww, but Yuuri, look how happy she is to see you!” Viktor teased, “Good girl! Good girl, Makkachin!”

In an instant, The Poodle changed targets; pouncing on The Prince and nearly knocking him right into the fountain.

“Ha!” Yuuri cried in vindication, wiping the dog slobber off with his sleeve, “That’s right – go get him, Makka! Show that silly Prince who’s boss!”

Viktor quickly found his footing, ruffling the old Poodle’s fur and scratching her fuzzy cheeks, “Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good girl, Makka? You are! Yes, you are! Oh, I missed you so much!”

With a happy yip, Makkachin went down on all fours, bouncing back and forth between the two; propelled by her perpetually-wagging tail.

“Master Katsuki –”

The Prince and The Hero both snapped to attention as a deep, gravelly voice addressed them; eclipsed by a congregation of well-wishers who’d followed in The Poodle’s wake.

“Y-Yakov?” Yuuri hedged, turning to the gruff, balding man who had spoken.

“Good to have you back,” The Major Domo greeted, offering forth a stout and wizened hand.

Yuuri smiled and clasped it with his own; allowing Yakov to haul him to his feet.

It was very nearly overwhelming, gazing out at the endless sea of faces; a dozen people that Yuuri couldn’t quite place were all beaming at him – each one simultaneously friend and stranger.

A chorus of triumphant cheers thickened the air as The Hero’s family welcomed him home.

And though their faces were unfamiliar, their voices were unforgettable.

“Yuuri! Yuuri, you’re okay!”

“It’s you! _It’s really you_!”

“Merciful stars! It’s . . . it’s a _miracle_!”

“I-I can hardly believe it!”

“ _Hooray_! Yuuri’s _alive_!”

Mila and Sara leapt to embrace him, with Georgi not far behind. Emil hugged him next, while Michele politely saluted instead. Then there was Minami, who practically tackled The Hero in his excitement. Leo and Guang Hong came to his side with a rousing pat on the back, while Lilia and Seung-Gil looked on; stoic and serious as ever, but both undeniably pleased.

Otabek appeared next, offering a firm handshake and a smile – while Nikolai let loose a booming laugh and ruffled Yuuri’s hair.

The other Yuri crossed his arms and scowled.

“Oi, _Katsudon_!” he snapped, “What did I tell you about doing dumb stuff like this and freaking everyone out?”

The Hero’s smile turned sheepish.

“Right . . .” he shrugged, “S-sorry, Yurio”.

The Kitchen Boy wrinkled his nose at the nickname; but for once, let the argument drop.

“Yea, well . . . whatever. Just don’t let it happen again! _Got it_?”

Yuuri nodded, “I got it,” he promised.

“Good,” with a nod and a huff and a glare, The Kitchen Boy moved on.

“He’s right, you know – you scared the crap outta me, Yuuri!”

The Hero swivelled a hundred and eighty degrees; so turned about in the tidal wave of affection, he completely lost track of himself.

“C-Captain Nishigori?”

Yuuri squeaked as The Guard Captain wrapped him up in a crushing bear-hug; the tips of The Hero’s toes lifting ever-so-slightly off the ground.

Yuuri beamed and stumbled out of the embrace; right into the waiting arms of Okukawa Minako.

“Oh, Yuuri!” she cooed, her pebble-gray eyes wide and watery, “I’m so proud of you!”

If possible, she squeezed even tighter than Nishigori.

Yuuri returned the embrace; hardly believing that she was really, actually there beside him, after all this time.

“Pfft. And what am I? Chopped liver?”

Yuuri rolled his eyes and slid from Minako’s grasp, turning toward the sound of his brother’s voice.

As their eyes met across the crowded courtyard, Phichit’s smug grin melted into a watery smile.

A single tear slid down his cheek.

“Phichit . . .”

The very next instant, Yuuri’s arms were around him; both trembling with words unspoken and tears unshed. The Hero and The Strategist clung to one another in the chaos; joy and relief and pride and bewilderment rolling over them in waves, realizing that they were finally safe – and reunited for good.

At long last, The Brothers parted.

Yuuri sniffled and dried his tears on his sleeve.

Phichit punched him in the arm.

“Ow!” Yuuri squawked, “ _What was that for_?”

“You know very well what that was for!” Phichit refuted, crossing his arms with a huff, “don’t you _ever_ scare me like that again!”

Yuuri rolled his eyes, but smiled all the same; wondering how many more times he’d be lectured before the day was over.

“Ha-ha! Well done, ma petite étincelle!”

A pair of long, well-toned arms wrapped around Yuuri’s shoulders; pulling him in close and squeezing with all their might. Said arms belonged to a very tall young man with big, innocent calf-eyes; undoubtedly, one Christophe Giacometti.

The Maître D’ kissed Yuuri soundly on the cheek.

“ _Mwah_!”

The Hero just laughed, “Chris!” he groaned, “Mercy’s sake – you’re worse than Makka!”

At length, Chris released his giggling charge, “I knew it! I knew you could do it, mon cher!” he gushed, “I never doubted you for a moment!”

“Careful now, mein herzli,” a much lighter voice quipped, “let’s not _smother_ the poor boy–”

Masumi smiled, placing a gentle, white-gloved hand on Chris’ shoulder. Somehow, The Head Butler was even taller than his paramour; long chestnut locks feathering out at his nape.

Chris grinned back at his lover, “Ah, right you are, Müsli,” he conceded, pressing a demure kiss to Masumi’s knuckles, “Clearly _Viktor_ is the one in need of a good _smothering_ . . .”

With a wicked smirk, Chris threw himself at The Prince, who squealed at the unexpected ambush.

Masumi let out a fond snort, then turned back to The Hero; gracing Yuuri with a respectful bow.

“Sumimasen, arigatō gozaimashita”.

Yuuri smiled and then returned the gesture.

“O yakunitatete naniyoridesu”.

Suddenly, The Prince’s voice rang out above the din – loud and boisterous and bracing – causing both The Hero and The Butler to jump.

“So . . . ‘ _soon to be husbands_ ’, is it?” Viktor wheedled, echoing The Enchantress’s words, “. . . would either of you care to _enlighten_ us?”

Chris shrugged, mischief twinkling in his hazel eyes, “Oh, don’t get so excited, mon petit bichon . . . I _assume_ our _ethereal visitor_ was simply alluding to the fact that my dear, sweet Müsli and I have been _engaged_ these last twenty-odd years . . .”

His announcement was met by a chorus of scandal.

“What? No way!”

“You’ve been engaged this _entire time_?”

“And you never bothered to _say anything_?”

“Really? Congratulations!”

“Oh great – another pair of _lovesick idiots_ –”

“There’s _no way_ you kept a secret for _that_ long –!”

“– Especially _Chris_! Not the way he runs his mouth –”

“WHAT? _When did this happen_? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! _Traitors_!”

“Wow! Congrats, you two!”

Masumi sported a very self-satisfied little smirk, entwining his fingers with his groom-to-be.

“It’s true,” he confirmed, “we’ve been affianced since before the spell was cast –”

“– and now that we’re human again . . . we’re finally going to be married!” Chris beamed.

Viktor smiled; sweet and soft and warm, “Well then . . . I do believe congratulations are in order. For the both of you”.

“Thank you, my Prince,” Masumi replied.

“We won’t waste any more time before the ceremony, of course,” Chris decreed, “ _twenty years_ is plenty long enough for an engagement. It’ll be tough, and it’ll be tricky – but if we can throw a Ball together in little more than a day, and prepare for a Siege in a single evening, I’m certain we can plan a Wedding in an hour . . . maybe less!”

Yuuri snorted. He was fairly certain Chris was joking, but knowing The Maître D’, he couldn't be too careful.

Masumi reticently cleared his throat, “Yes. Well, everything seems to be in order here . . .” he noted, brusque and formal as ever, “So, if you’ll all kindly excuse us, my _fiancée_ and I have some business to attend to”.

" _Business_?" Chris pouted, "Aww, but Müsli, we have a wedding to plan! There can't _possibly_ be anything more important than -"

"Ich gehe auf unser Zimmer," Masumi interrupted, his tone brokering no argument, " . . . _Lass mich nicht warten_ ".

With that, The Head Butler turned on his heel and headed for The Castle; leaving one very flustered Maître D’ in his wake.

“Ah . . . a-apologies, everyone," Chris stammered, gawking after his groom-to-be, "b-but my dear Müsli has just brought some rather _urgent business_ to my attention, and I-I  _absolutely cannot_ afford to linger. I, ah, I wish I could stay and chat, of course, but this matter is of the _utmost importance_ , and I, uh . . . I should, ah, deal with the-the  _business_ . . . which, ah, as I said before, is really rather . . . rather  _urgent_  in nature, and-"

“ _JUST GO_!” Yuri barked; salvaging the moment before Chris sullied it any further.

The Maître D’ needed no further prompting; he took off like a flash, giddy and panting as he caught up to his fiancée.

“Ugh. _Idiots_ ”. Yuri scoffed.

“ _Urgent Business_ aside,” Lilia interjected, “I’m afraid you must excuse me as well. I, for one, have _genuine_ matters to attend to”.

Her severe green eyes raked over the crowd, until they came to rest on Yuuri.

“Master Katsuki, I assume you realize that such a short-lived case of death does not excuse you from your lessons? I will see you tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp”.

The Hero snapped to attention, “Y-yes. Of course, Madame Baranovskaya,” he answered automatically, despite his lingering bewilderment.

“Good,” Lilia snapped, turning now to Minako, “And _you_ , Lady Okukawa – I should hope that twenty years in the country has not impaired your technique. Between the Crown Prince and Master Katsuki, I will undoubtedly require my most practiced coach to return to her tenure – and I refuse to take ‘no’ for an answer”.

Minako smiled, “Tomorrow morning,” she promised, “eight o’clock sharp”.

“Not tomorrow morning – _now_ ,” Lilia commanded, “Or must I do _everything_ myself?”

With that, Lilia stalked back toward The Castle; confidant that Minako would follow.

The Mentor looked to Yuuri with a sheepish little shrug, “I really shouldn’t keep her waiting . . .” she apologized.

“No, better not,” Yuuri agreed, “Otherwise _you_ might be the one coming down with a ‘short-lived case of death’.”

Minako snorted, “and that’s if I’m _lucky_ ,” she quipped.

With one last nod and a quick smile to The Prince, The Mentor hurried off after The Dance Master.

As she shrank into the distance, Viktor’s heart ached with relief; at long last, Minako was home.

“I assume _our_ presence will be required tomorrow morning as well,” Seung-Gil drawled, turning to his colleagues, “perhaps we should discover what became of our _original_ instruments”.

Leo sprang to life.

“Ah! My plectrums!” he cried, bolting across the courtyard.

Seung-Gil followed, with Guang Hong plodding along beside him.

“Aw, _man_ ,” The Violist groused, “I haven’t rosined my bow in _twenty years_! It’s gonna be _so_ –”.

“Hey! Wait for me!” Minami hollered, racing after The Musicians, “Do any of you guys remember where I left my horn?”

“You _must_ be joking – it’s been _two decades_!”

“I don’t even remember what I had for _breakfast_ –”

A slow, rumbling laugh rolled over the promenade.

“Speaking of breakfast, I’ve got a castle full of people to feed!” Nikolai announced, "Come on, now! You kids must be _famished_ – let me see what I can whip up for you!”

With a jaunty bounce in his usually weathered step, he too headed for the ballroom.

Emil grinned, “Hey, Mickey – I’ll race you to The Castle!”

Mila smirked, “Last one there has to wash Yuri’s grody old hose!” she proclaimed; answering the challenge on Mickey’s behalf.

“Hey!” Yuri fumed, “Worry about your own hose, you _HAG_!”

Mila just giggled, grabbed Sara’s hand and took off running; carnation-pink petticoats whipping around her ankles, crimson curls bobbing in the breeze. Beside her, Sara’s lavender skirts swished along to the sound of her soprano laughter.

“Hey! Sara! Wait for me!” Mickey cried, following right on their heels.

With a boisterous laugh, Emil charged after them; bringing up the rear with both Georgi and Makka in tow.

Nikolai's deep, rumbling voice rolled out over the promenade once more.

“You too, Yurochka!” he called, “I need you to come help me mince!”

“ _WHAT_?” The Kitchen Boy roared, “But I –! Ugh! That’s _so_ unfair! _Right Beka_?”

Otabek merely shrugged, slung an arm around Yuri’s shoulder and steered the protesting Kitchen Boy back toward The Castle.

“Ugh. _Mince_. Why do _I_ have to _mince_? _No one else_ in the _entire castle_ knows how to _mince_? Well, _fine_. I’ll show them _mincing_ – mince them _right into the ground_ –”

“Yuri, _mind your manners_!” Yakov warned, “You’re a proper young man again, and we expect you to _behave like one_!”

“ _WHATEVER_!”

“ _YURI_ . . . _don’t make me come over there_!”

“Pfft! What’re you gonna do, _mince my head off_?”

With a deep breath and a long-suffering sigh, Yakov headed for The Castle as well; ostensibly to prevent – or perhaps to _execute_ – a mincing-related ‘accident’.

Now, only six remained in the sweet summer courtyard; Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov and his small envoy of allies who hailed from The Village.

A soft touch tickled Yuuri’s palm; Viktor appeared beside him, lacing their fingers together.

The Dancer smiled up at his Prince.

Viktor smiled back.

Then he cleared his throat.

“I owe you all an incredible debt of gratitude,” The Prince decreed, facing the dwindled assembly, “You were under no obligation to act, and had nothing to gain by your assistance – yet, you all came to our aid regardless”.

Yuuri squeezed Viktor’s hand; an ever-present reminder that he was no longer alone.

“You protected my home,” The Prince continued, “and more importantly, my _family_. I – I can scarcely find the words to express the depths of my appreciation, but I sincerely hope I have conveyed the enormity of my thanks. If there is any way in which I can even _begin_ to repay you, you have only but to name it; I will not soon forget the kindness which you all have shown me”.

“Happy to help, your Highness,” Nishigori shrugged, “Given the circumstances . . . well, we just did what we felt was right”.

Both Marcel and Isabella nodded their agreement.

“Fair enough,” Viktor conceded, “And well said. But, even so, I would like to honour your efforts, if I may. Perhaps I could invite you all for an audience, once the proverbial dust has settled – my gratitude, as well as my offer, extends to _all_ of your operatives, of course”.

“Thank you, Prince Viktor,” Nishigori replied, “I’m certain they’ll appreciate it”.

“It’s settled then,” Viktor decreed; smiling from ear to ear.

“Hey. Yuuri”.

The Hero turned eyes on Isabella Yang.

“I, uh . . . I’m glad you’re, um, okay? I guess,” She stammered, very obviously ill-at-ease with the outpouring of emotion, “And . . . and I, uh, never really apologized, did I? You know, for breaking your glasses and . . . and everything”.

Isabella bit her lip, eyes downcast.

Yuuri’s lips curled into a sympathetic smile.

“That’s alright . . . you’ve already more than made amends”.

The Hero extended a hand; The Guardian extended her own and took his in truce – the two parting as unlikely friends.

“One more thing, Your Highness,” Nishigori added, “I think you should know that . . . well, we caught up to J.J.”.

“Oh?” Viktor inquired; bristling at the mention of his nemesis, “tell me, Captain, what has become of our Monsieur Leroy?”

Yuuri felt The Prince’s grip tighten ever-so-slightly; he squeezed back in reassurance.

“Officer Yelyzaveta found him collapsed near that pavilion over there – blood loss from the gunshot wound to his shoulder," Nishigori replied, "He’s in recovery at the moment, but he’ll be in custody whenever you decide to . . . deal with him”.

“He was unconscious,” Marcel apologized, “We didn’t know – didn’t _realize_ what’d happened. I-I mean, we had no idea that he’d –”

“We thought you’d escaped,” Phichit interrupted, “We couldn’t find you two _anywhere_ , so we figured you’d made a run for it – you know, led Dumb-Dumb on a wild goose chase until he passed out - maybe even left the grounds altogether. But . . . the spell had been broken, so we all just assumed that wherever you were, you were safe . . . and then we just . . . waited for you to come back”.

Viktor nodded, “understandable,” he mused.

“Ugh, let’s not talk about ‘Dumb-Dumb’ anymore,” Isabella scoffed, looking to the other villagers, “pretty sure these two are trying to _celebrate_ , here”.

Yuuri flashed her a grateful little smile.

She smiled in return, before tapping Marcel on the shoulder, “come on, Durand, be a pal and help me back inside. I feel like I need to nap for at least the next thousand years”.

With a fond little snort, Marcel did as requested; the two limping along slower than a pair of snails.

“I’m heading back to The Village as soon as I can,” Nishigori reported, “I want to let the family know I’m alright – and I’ve got a lot of folks waiting on me to hear what’s happened. Going to make sure the lines of communication are open before I leave though – I’m sure we’ll need to reach one another in the days ahead”.

“Of course,” Viktor replied, “thank you, Captain”.

Nishigori saluted The Prince, nodded to The Hero, and then turned to The Strategist.

“Oh, and Phichit –?”

“Y-yea?”

“While I’m gone . . . _try_ to stay out of trouble?”

The Strategist smirked, “I make no promises”.

Nishigori laughed, “Yea . . . somehow, I’m not surprised”.

With a doting smile, he offered forth his hand, “take care, Phichit”.

The Strategist clasped Nishigori’s hand in his own, “You too, Captain. Say ‘hi’ to Yuuko and The Girls for me”.

“Will do,” Nishigori vowed.

And with that, The Captain departed.

A warm summer breeze swirled through the courtyard; bringing with it a new era of peace and contentment.

“So . . .” Phichit drawled, turning back to his brother, “is this the part where I come up with some flimsy excuse to take off, so you two can start necking again?”

“ _P-Phichit_!” Yuuri hissed, blushing right up to the tips of his ears.

The Strategist shrugged, feigning naïveté even as his smirk grew wicked, “I mean . . . is that a ‘no’, or –?”

The Prince was howling with laughter; The Hero once again buried his face in his hands.

“I have no brother,” Yuuri deadpanned, “I am an only child –”

“Oh _whatever_ , Monsieur Fussy-Britches,” Phichit snorted, playfully batting The Hero’s arm, “like your little 'crush' on His Imperial Viktor-ness is some _big secret_. Everyone knows you two are going to get married and live happily ever after and all that other tooth-rotting Fairy Story goodness”.

Viktor beamed, “Well, I certainly hope so!”

Phichit smirked, “ _Hope_? Pfft - knowing Georgi, he’s already stitching the wedding suits –”

“ _M-married_?” Yuuri squeaked, peeking through his fingers, “ _Fairy Story_?”

“Oh yea – without a doubt!” Phichit crowed, “Handsome Princes, Magic Spells, Epic Battles . . . all pretty standard Fairy Story stuff. I mean, we even had a technical quibble to save the day –!”

“You know, he makes a very good point, my love –” Viktor concurred, wrapping an arm around Yuuri’s waist, “I can think of worse fates than living out a Fairy Story . . .”

“ _Viktor_!” Yuuri whined, “Don’t _encourage_ him–”

“Too late!” Phichit chirped, “I’m encouraged”.

“Oh please no –”

“So _Viktor_ –” The Strategist purred, “What _exactly_ is Yuuri’s title going to be? Once you two get hitched, I mean?”

“Wh-what!? _PHICHIT_!”

Viktor shrugged, “That depends. Do you mean _before_ , or _after_ my coronation – whenever that might be?”

“ _VIKTOR_!”

“Hmm . . . let’s go with ‘before’ – just to be on the safe side,” Phichit grinned.

“Oh, for the love of mercy –”

“Well, _technically_ his rank will be ‘Duke’,” Viktor drawled, “but he’ll hold the title of ‘Serene Prince’.”

Phichit gave a low whistle in reply, “Wow. ‘Serene Prince’, huh? Not too shabby . . .”

“You two just _love_ to _torture_  me, don’t you?”

Viktor’s chest shook with mirth, softly chuckling as he drew Yuuri’s hands away from his face; both of The Prince's hands now holding The Hero's own.

“I’m sorry, dearest . . .” Viktor cooed, “I can’t help it! You’re just so cute when you blush!”

“I – w-what? You–? I –!” Yuuri’s flabbergasted face slowly melted into a sheepish little moue, “ . . . no, m’not . . .”

Suddenly, Viktor was starting to feel rather _flushed_ himself.

“Oh, but you _are,_ ” he insisted, purring like a contented cat, “And furthermore, I believe that it’s my _princely duty_ to inform you that you’re even _cuter_ when you pout . . .”

“ _V-Viktor_ –!”

“ _Alright, alright_ , I can take a hint” Phichit joked, throwing his hands up in mock-surrender, “I know when I'm not wanted. Don't have to tell me twice. Message received _loud and clear,_ " he slowly began to back away, “Yup - here I go. Walking away now . . . ”

“Okay! Bye Phichit!” Viktor beamed; an adorable heart-shaped smiled plastered across his face.

The Strategist rolled his eyes; dropping the act with a good-natured chortle as he ambled back inside.

Yuuri snorted, nuzzling into Viktor’s chest, “You’re _terrible_ , you know that?”

“I am . . . but it worked, didn’t it?” Viktor countered, wrapping his arms around his beloved; hands coming to rest on the small of Yuuri’s back, “See? Now I have you _all to myself_ . . .”

“Mmm, how devious of you . . .” Yuuri hummed, ghosting his fingers along Viktor’s collar, “but, you _do_ realize he's going to find a way to get back at you for that, right?”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Viktor agreed, “But it was well worth it”.

“Well then, all I can say is: you’re a much braver man than I,” Yuuri quipped, arms draping around his Prince's neck, "I mean, you think _Chris_  is a menace? Just wait until _Phichit_  gets his hands on _seven barrels of lutefisk_ -"

"Well . . . I'm not too worried about that," Viktor teased, "We don't allow lutefisk in The Castle anymore. Besides . . . I have _you_ to protect me".

"Pfft. In your dreams, Nikiforov -"

“ _What_? _Yuuri_! You're seriously not going to save me from Phichit's ominous retribution?”

“Hey, you brought this on yourself –”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing! You took a _bullet_ for me, Yuuri –”

“Yes. And I’m still much more afraid of Phichit”.

Viktor laughed, finally surrendering their game. 

“ _My Hero_ ,” he quipped, adoration rolling off his tongue as he pulled Yuuri in for a another kiss.

Just as with the first and second, their third kiss felt like coming home; and in that moment, Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov decided he would gladly endure a thousand more trials, so long as every single one of them concluded exactly like this.

“So . . .” Viktor drawled, “have you given any thought to how I might repay you?”

Yuuri just blinked up at him, still dazed from their kiss. His fingertips curled reflexively, scratching ever-so-gently at Viktor’s nape.

“Repay me?” he queried, “For what?”

“For saving my life, of course,” The Prince replied, “You’ve done more for me than anyone else ever has, Yuuri – you didn’t think I was speaking only to Phichit and the others earlier, did you?”

The Hero smiled; sweet and soft and sheepish.

“Oh . . . well, I mean . . . you - you don’t need to repay me,” he murmured, “I, ah, already have everything I need”.

“Oh, you _do_ , do you?”,

“I do . . . I have you”.

Despite his beloved’s decree, Viktor could not resist rewarding him with another kiss.

“You’re _certain_  there’s _nothing else_ you want?” The Prince teased, whispering against his lover’s lips, “No other wishes I can grant? No other dreams I can fulfill?”

“Hmm . . .” Yuuri pondered, drawing back to better see his Prince, “well, there is _one_ . . ."

Between the purr in Yuuri's voice and the hunger in his gaze, Viktor nearly plunged straight into oblivion. 

". . . take me to see The City Ballet?”

The Hero's observant snicker yanked The Prince right back to reality.

Not for the first time, Viktor swore this boy would be the death of him.

“Of course, my love," The Prince vowed, "Nothing would make me happier”.

His beloved beamed from ear to ear; big, beautiful brown eyes glittering like burnished bronzite.

Viktor's heart flooded with rapture, knowing _he’d_ been the one to make Yuuri’s eyes sparkle like that.

“We could go during the next run of La Grande Beaute du Sud,” The Hero proposed, “After all . . . I still don’t know how it ends”.

In reply, Viktor huffed a little laugh. One hand slid to Yuuri’s waist; the other rose to caress his cheek.

“Well, I do . . . and I can promise you this, my love: their story doesn't hold a candle to ours”.

And as The Prince embraced his Hero, claiming yet another kiss in the sweet summer sunlight, he counted himself a very lucky man indeed; for nothing in the world could ever compare to the love of Katsuki Yuuri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Japanese] Okāsan = お母さん = Mom
> 
> [French] Papier-Mâché = Paper Maché
> 
> [Russian] Lyubov Moya = любовь моя = My Love
> 
> [Japanese] Ojīsan = お祖父さん = Grandfather
> 
> [French] Sacrebleu = Sacred Blue (Literally). “Sacrebleu” is an explicative, roughly along the lines of “Oh My God”/“Holy Shit”/“Jesus Chirst” – but it’s definitely NOT in common use. The term is considered super campy and archaic – which is exactly why I chose it. It would be incredibly rare for someone to say this in real life – unless they’re being dramatic/making a joke.
> 
> [French] Mes chères = My dears
> 
> [French] Ma petite étincelle = My little spark
> 
> [Swiss German] Müsli = Mouse (Colloquial) (Term of Endearment)
> 
> [Japanese] Sumimasen, arigatō gozaimashita = すみません、ありがとうございました = Thank You Very Much (for what you’ve already done). Though the word “Sumimasen” means “sorry” and/or “excuse me”, it can also be used when thanking someone. Here, the speaker is acknowledging that the other person has gone to great lengths to do something for them. Kind of along the lines of: “I understand and appreciate how much effort it took for you to do this thing for me”.
> 
> [Japanese] O yakunitatete naniyoridesu = お役に立てて何よりです = I’m glad to be of some help/I’m glad to help you.
> 
> [French] Mon Petit Bichon = My Little Dog/My Pet (Colloquial Term of Endearment)
> 
> [High German] Ich gehe auf unser Zimmer. Lass mich nicht warten = I’ll be in our room (bedroom). Don’t keep me waiting.  
> (Many Thanks to JamieAvenBell for the correction!) 
> 
> As always, hit me up with any fixes!


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